A Labyrinth

Stealthy elegance,
slowly seeping,
into consciousness.
Stickley,
recliner,
sleek,
and simple.
Comfortable.
Supportive in all the right places.
High grade crafting,
with a smooth light varnish;
a natural finish,
dovetailing,
with supple leather,
that kisses skin.
Gently enveloping.
You are subtle sexy,
like a recliner by Stickley.

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You are adorable,
that’s undeniable,
but the fact stands taller than your lanky frame,
you are not geographically viable.

In fact,
the fact that you are now physically unattainable,
is probably what makes liking you so safely entertainable.

You see,
leagues of silken skies can cover up imperfections,
and the world of my imagination is a Willy Wonka wonderland of romantic confections,
all sweet but nothing savory,
melting away like chocolate on my tongue,
you are not geographically viable.

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Its called a puf.
Its when you fill your mouth with air,
and push it though pursed lips,
making a sound like,
puuuuffff.

A puf is a grandfather’s gift.

It must be done on the stomach of someone young.

However,
a puf is only a puf,
when the receiver laughs hysterically,
because it tickles and they’re ticklish,
you have to do it correctly,
plan the timing perfectly.
You see,
its silly and absurd,
I mean,
is puf even a word?

My unborn children may never,
know the laugh that was ever,
buzzing,
beneath my Saba’s lips.
But I guarantee you,
they will know what a puf is,
and who invented it.

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Put your hand in my hand,
and,
squeeze.

Knit your knuckles,
’round my fingers,
don’t let go of me,
please.

Twist your wrist,
open fist,
prying open mine.
Your hand in my hand,
is more meaningful than a signature on a dotted line,
it is a universal sign.

Slip your hand in my hand,
and,
squeeze.

If the words don’t come you don’t have to speak,
I will put your heart at ease,
just satisfy my need,

put your hand in my hand,
and,
squeeze.

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The high road is giving me vertigo,
and I just want to let my anger go;
get down and dirty.
I am tired of the high road,
so here it goes…
I can’t believe I thought you were mature,
I was so impressed.
But you’ll never even know that this is about you,
because you are too dense to get poetry.
Your passion is so suppressed,
and you have no idea that there is more to it,
than getting undressed.
I bet you wouldn’t know affection if it hit you in the face.
Well, honey,
this ain’t love,
but gosh, I’d love to hit you in the face.
What are you here for?
Spinning your wheels for?
Do you think you’ll find it on some ancient page?
Some dried up sage?
Practice what you preach,
the holiness you seek,
might be in another’s heart,
or in my wounded pride,
or in David’s verse,
or do you think his lines are also a curse,
that should be blown out of this world with mine?
Yea, that’s right.
If I wrote about God would that still be “weird,”
would it be okay if I had a beard?
Do you think you know what you’re here for?
Who is the God you fear for?
I know you think you’ve seen the light,
but whatever you saw is just not that bright.

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I am sifting through artifacts,
trying to unearth the story,
of who you are.

I am wondering why it has taken me so long to fall for you,
why didn’t I open my eyes and see,
that maybe you are right,
and there is something better than my dreams,
right in front of me,
well actually,
down the street.

For now,

because as usual my timing is off,
and I am about to take off,
to new planet,
and start again.
Its time re-spark stalled engines.
Time to try and make my mark on the world.

I’d like to make my mark,
on your cheek,
on your shoulder,
on your heart.

The first time our paths collided,
it was you who needed to move
a different way,
in order to follow your path,
and it was I who stayed.

I am not sure if I have nothing to lose,
or everything,
if I choose,
to let you know,
that I am sad to let you go,
again.
Yes, I was sad also then.

Should I tell you,
that I have always thought you were really cute,
or would my words fall mute,
on your musical ears.

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