Hold me, my dear, hold me.
Put your pale arms around my neck.
Let me hold your heart like a flower
lest it bloom and collapse.
Give me your skin
as sheer as a cobweb,
let me open it up
and listen in and scoop out the dark.
Give me your nether lips
all puffy with their art
and I will give you angel fire in return.
Hold me, my dear, hold me." - Anne Sexton, from Rapunzel
Let’s stay inside.
Lock the door.
Come to me naked.
No one’s here.
Here, living with you,
love is still the only subject that matters.
I open to you like a flowering wound,
or a trough in the sea filled with dreaming fish,
or a steaming chasm of earth
split by a major quake.
You changed the topography.
Where valleys were,
there are now mountains.
Where deserts were,
there now are seas.
We rub each other,
but we do not wear away.
The sand gets finer
and our skins turn silk.
Some good-for-nothing — who knows why —
made up the tale that love exists on earth.
People believe it, maybe from laziness
or boredom, and live accordingly:
they wait eagerly for meetings, fear parting,
and when they sing, they sing about love.
But the secret reveals itself to some,
and on them silence settles down.
(I found this out by accident
and now it seems I’m sick all the time.)
I have a face cut from ice
a heart pierced in a thousand places
so to remember
always the same voice
the same gestures
and my laughter
as a wall
between you and me
the ones who are most alive
seem the most still
behind the milky way
a shadow dances
our gaze climbs toward the stars." - Pablo Picasso, The Morning Of The World
pearls singly-whispering." - e.e cummings, from The Complete Poems
You are tired,
And so am I.
Tired of things that break, and—
So am I.
Come with me, then,
And we’ll leave it far and far away—
(Only you and I, understand!)