An Essay Upon That Which Claws at Me

[Nectarine Sunset]

    I can't compare you to a season's day.
    Maybe once - but your warmth is that of home
    with a look so comforting that it hurts
    and a smile that makes me want to drown.

    You are the autumn and the summer and
    the winter and spring, every ounce of blood
    that flows through my veins into your own heart.
    I know I'm young, but I love you so much-

    ah. I was stupid then, wasn't I, to think
    that all the words I could say would get through
    to such a heart as pure as yours? Alright.
    I suppose that now it lays asunder.

    Did you not see me or choose to not see?
    You say you love them all. Would you love me?

i want to wear your skin like a suit so    

his hands can intertwine with mine like yours    

your hair a wig upon my head, antlers    

lopped off so he'd never know that it's me    

you have so much light in your life and i    

have so little, you need him less than me    

i gave him all i could, why is his heart    

not in my hands but instead within yours    

these words aren't enough to replace him    

i know that i don't have much time, but it    

won't be enough - and it would break him to    

shatter you exactly how you deserve    

do you feel love, or is it a whim-    

or is it selfish concern stealing him?    

When I was younger, I knew not of light.

It's silly, right?

The concept that I didn't know of heroes - besides what I had read in plays, that is.

They were always gallant, always radiant, never resorted to action first. They talked.

It worked most times- sometimes it didn't, and then they would win.

They would always win.

I loved those heroes.

You came to Delphina once to get an injury treated.

You were brave and kind and a light that I had needed, and I followed it like a moth burning itself to get closer to the light that it loved.

Maybe I should have just kept writing these stories instead of participating in them.

It would be a lot less painful.

There's a half-finished letter to you in a drawer.

I'll never finish it, I think.

It was meant to tell you how I felt about you.

There's a half-finished play in your name now, already something I regret writing.

I want to chuck it in the fireplace.

I won't. I can't. It helps me feel closer to you, even this early on.

I love you.

I love you so, I love you so, I sing to myself as I fish.

I love you so, I love you so, I sing to myself as I travel on.

I love you so, I sing, knowing that I'll never hear it back in the way that I want to hear it from you.

I love you so much I cannot say how.

The stage is yours, not mine-

at least for now.