I can glimpse my fingers through your hair,
Like little hikers
Trying to reach the promised summit
Only to realize
That it was so much more
In their heads,
Than under their feet.
The little one is oft left out
While the rest play in the overgrown weeds of your infinite mind.
It’s the only one
That can feel the air,
And the harsh ends of your uncared for edges,
That have split like my fingers in your hair.
To be as honest as the thumb,
That sometimes crushes your temples
In an attempt to coerce the stiffness
That stifles me.
To be as valiant as the first,
That finds itself on scant grounds,
And still runs across the ragged edges
Of a rapidly thinning countenance.
To be as secure as the middle,
Buried in the undergrowth
That promises depth,
By obscuring sight.
But not the third.
Not the paradoxical ring bearer,
That can feel both the abyss and the sparsity.
But in all it’s perception,
Can barely control it’s movement.
Moving as a mere after shadow
Of others and the leash.
It’s the only one that’s free.
That is still more me,
It neither belongs,
But is the silent bridge,
Between nothing and the harsh splits.
And then you move,
A little away,
A little toward,
And all my fingers are crushed under the weight of your head.
The complex dynamics of a relationship are impossibly uncertain. Love can sometimes live like its own monster inside you, glancing out at the most intimate moments, turning them into molten lava of unfamiliarity. And you're left wondering if you're ever going to be you again, or if there's some indelible force in love, that would crush you were you to feel it truly. Ah, to not comprehend, and yet feel the unknowns and the unfamiliars!