What that look means

Like most people,
you require words while
I speak with looks
because words fail.

I don’t mean them to –
it’s just my humbled
soul scatters its urges
like so many
parti-colored
leaves falling
on fallow
ground,
pointing
for a while
in strange directions
before they decay to dust.

You know most of my masks
by now – trusting
as far as you can
my sharp-toothed
rotting soul
and its
unknown tongue.

There is one look
I should explain –

not the questions
my eyes ask
and your eyes
answer without
meaning to, bluely
crystal clear;

not the faraway
unblinking gaze
that comes off creepy;

not need, not want,
not mania, nor
fear nor hurt.

You know the one:
the surprised and stupid
stare that pushes blood
into your cheeks
against your will,
that changes
your scent,
and makes you
turn away quickly
like you’d seen
something
indecent
or intimate.

It is composed
of funny tasting words,
narcotic bitter,
linguistic rufies
that overwhelm
my will
and scatter
my mind’s ashes
over unholy ground.

Roughly translated,
it runs like this:

I would speak softly to you;
I would not harm your secret heart;
I would help you find your dreams
and call you back when they grew dark;
I would cast out the nameless things you fear;
I would keep you safe and warm
and listen to your heart’s unequaled beats;
I would breathe for you,
remember for you,
love for you,
ache for you –

until you
didn’t
need
me
any
more.

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