compose

pure white, untouched paper.

I sit before it to talk to you,

since I can’t do it to your face.

what to say, how to say it.

all that come to me are images.

amidst the headache of heat and cold.

memories.

my palm over your face,

toes interlocked,

giggling at the feel of whiskers.

but the questions

unanswered haunt me

when I sleep.

my toes grow cold and lonely,

my fingers hurt from texting you.

great expectations.

where there is joy there is pain.

when I smile, I know I will cry later.

but not in front of you.

you once licked away the tears

and told me it would be alright.

I was not crying because of you.

now I am, and you’ll never know.

more images.

limbs entwined in the dark.

but it isn’t you and me.

more giggles.

a palm over your face.

toes interlocked.

notch, notch, notch.

I smirk.

what can I say?

now I have no expectations.

in the dark my toes are warm.

I sleep deep

so I can rise early

and live my dream.

but the paper remains white, virgin.

I can’t bear to touch it,

make it soiled like me.

you will misunderstand, twist,

make me cry more,

never forgive me.

pen shaking, I twist the lid back on.

and put the paper away.

my thoughts are composed

of things I cannot tell you.

entwined tongues,

heavy limbs,

the smell of your sweat

against me.

picking up my clothes,

I drive away quietly.

back to my work,

back to my life.

and you back to yours.

call when you want.

I keep my toes warm myself.

I giggle with other people,

people I had forgotten about

when I met you.

I wish I could be like the paper

I could not compose on.

white, pure, true.

true I can try to be now.

to myself and my dreams.

the composing is hard.

will leave it for tomorrow.

I leave you to your new notches.

slowly embedding myself

in my own life.

searching, finding,

answering, doing,

writing, expressing.

I will write to you tomorrow.

by then you will

already know.

I’m not me anymore.

I’m fang.

hear me roar.