Winter Limbs and the Desperate Shade of You
It’s the way that there is still Winter hanging on the branches somewhere, even if it is only in our imperfect memory.There is that beautiful moment in which you try to re-tell all of the lovely shades of white and blue and brown and that odd color that is the color of shadow but yet the color of nothing, only to find that there is not a way to tell it without messing it up and making it somehow less lovely than it is. That is why I never write of you.
I want them all to know the shades of your eyes, the blues rippling like tidal waves over other blues. I want them to know that they are the pools of joy which I find myself swimming, they are the waves that I will drown in on the days when they turn gray with self-doubt. I want them to know, but I will fail them so desperately.
I want the world to know of your laugh and the perfect lips that it falls from. I want to describe the way that you throw your head back and how something in your face turns back the clock to carefree times as a teenager, or when we first met in the park. I want them to know how I so desperately wanted to kiss those lips then and I how I still crave nothing but their taste now. But I would never do any of it justice.
I want to be able to say what it’s like to crawl into your arms, how there is no place safer or warmer or truer than that place. I want to show how it is my shelter and it is the place that I fear the most when I loose myself to the demons inside my head. But there is nothing that can evoke such emotion except for you.
This is why I never write of you. I write of he’s and him’s and she’s and her’s, but never of you. It is because I love you the most that I cannot put you into words. The way that you tear me apart and piece me together. The way that you free me and keep me grounded. I will not try because I fear I will only disappoint your perfection like that of the snow clinging still to the branches somewhere deep within my soul.
