They seem too simple,

Too concrete and restricted.

When you’ve taught me to fly,

Taught me to be still

And find pleasure.

They will never capture the softness of your gaze

And everything we say with one look.

How can I use words.

When you’ve shown me how to lay down in the grass,

And feel the comfort of an embrace.

When you’ve taught me to surrender time to your touch,

“Let me hold you, Chelsea.

I want to hold you.

Let me just,

Hold you.”

The lingering sensation of your hand,

Your lips and the smell of your hair.

You’ve turned purple into white,

And coaxed the sparrow from the shadows.

If I used your words, your language,

I would show you the softest of touch,

the warmth and comfort of my hand against your skin.

The gentle rhythm of your tissues

As I lay my head on your chest

And watch the rise and fall.

I would count your silvers against your sleek, black hair,

Counting and caressing,

as I draw my fingers through your fine feature.

I would send my breath to the back of your neck,

And sweetly sing soothing sonnets.

I would kiss your bare shoulders,

The curve of your spine,

Your brow, your fingers

And your lips.

I would gently draw my finger across your back

Until the corners of your mouth were lifted high.

Your touch is a whisper

That has redefined, reframed and reprogrammed.

Your language is of the body,

Of violins and acoustic guitars

Or water and feathers.

Words. Words will never be enough.

Never enough until I lie you down

In the gentle green

and teach you my language.

Never enough until my gratitude and love

Can lift you high into the atmosphere,

Sending you to dance on the wind.

To never come down

Until Father Time beckons.

Only then will I transfer your hand to his,

Only then will another’s touch surpass my own.

Oh, that he would never come.

That we may lie in the grass forever.



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