And Then What

I suppose if you asked me
or if you wanted to know about
what I love most,

then I would have to say

it’s the way you twirl.
No seriously. . .

It’s the way you manage to dance
(somehow)
when you walk or gaze at the sea
and you do this so purely
and beautifully,
even while the rest of the world turns
I watch you to see you
deep in thought.

God,
How does the do this?

I love how you smile,

or how you manage to maintain your posture
even while the world around you
is heavy
or weighing you down.

I swear,
and perhaps I go too far
or maybe I expose too much
or seem weak
or pitiful,
but when you cry
or when your eyes well with tears,
I somehow find this arousing,
which is not to say that I rejoice in your sorrow,
but more,
I standby as a witness
to why the heavens cry,
and this too
is beautiful.

The beach changes you.
I know.
And I understand why too.
I see how the sands beneath your feet
and the waves that echo when tumbling forward,
cause you to breathe
and this brings you peace.

I have seen this, firsthand
and I know how this place frees you
when your toes
touch the wet sand
at the birth of the shore.

I would say

that perhaps it’s the way you look at the sea
and stand at the shoreline.

You smile . . .

Or I can say you are beautiful
because how your eyes show concern,
and I can tell you have more
than a million thoughts
or how you seem to wear this
and yet, I watch as
you walk into the water
and otherwise appear
redeemed.

I ask in my thoughts –
God,
how in Heaven’s name
did you build her?

You let the waves run up to your knees,

and you look out beyond the horizon
as if you see something
and you do this as if Mother Earth
and the ocean Herself, 

shows how yes . . .
She understands you
and the soft waves at the shore
are enough to wash away the sins

and keep your soul clean. 

God,
I have never seen anything this precious before.
But how does tis happen?
How is she possible?

If you asked me
I would say,

maybe it’s the way you appeal to me

or the way I see myself

or feel
when I see me
in the reflection of your eyes.
Or maybe this
is more selfish of me
than anything else.

But please
the last thing I want to do
is digress.
in fact, I have to wash this away
and rid myself of my self-serving devices
because the world is not about me
or my selfish tides
nor is there any place for the jealous envy
that comes when I think of your life
without me

That’s not fair
(to you)

I suppose, if you asked

or better, if you wanted to know
about your beauty
or if you are curious about what I see
or what I would note as your most beautiful features,

perhaps I might tell you this:

I think it’s the way you laugh

or how you smile.

I love how you are unapologetic

when you do what you do
or walk into a room without pretense
or when you look to do something

or go somewhere,

and no matter who knows

or who cares, or who watches,

and regardless of whomever
sees or understands,

I love how you seem unbothered to me.

I promise you
the world can come under fire
and all could implode
or explode
and I wouldn’t even notice
if you were with me

In fact, and please forgive the burden
but I find this heroic
and refreshing
as well as reminding that
I can be free too, —of course.
All I’d have to do
is take hold of your hand,
if it is mine to grab
that is.

I love how you make the scene
or walk in the room
or how you look
in a black dress . . .
you are a dance of all dances
sexy, and true.
I love how you can walk
and neither be bothered

nor deterred by the world around you.

Dear God,
Where did she come from?
And how did you create her?

You move regardless
and you keep going
No stopping
Not at all
Instead,
I see you stroll or walk along
as if someone who sits above

covers you and knows who you are,
as if to say
the Heavens know you personally,

and to me, yes—
You are indeed
an Angel with hidden wings.
You are a heart and a spirit
and of course,
you are the window to which
only your eyes hold the secrets
of your soul

I know that I go too deep
or that I go too far
and I know that I say too much
but I seldom say enough . . .
 . . .when it counts.

I know . . .
. . . I am the fool.
I m childlike and afraid
and yet, I am hopeful
and wishful that if at all
you will choose me
to dance with.

I am the one who
cannot undo what was done
nor can I fix what took place
nor can I erase time
or retract facts, remove history
or change the color of my spots.

I am guilty
or maybe a mess
and unclean

I know
I act the fool
and nor can I help it
and nor can I resist this
or you, or myself.

I just wish i was cool
but, no.
I’m not
At least, not really.

I am a man
a child who is absolutely
misunderstood and too often
misspoken, and, or I am misshaped
and fragmented with jagged edges
that come with my broken soul

I am above all
imperfect at best.
But yet,
I am here
always –

My God,
how does she smile like that
and ignore the fact that her touch
can heal all wounds?

I know –

My love is crazy
wild as ever,
and maybe dangerous too
or outrageous
like a gang of wild horses
galloping down the sands
on the beach of my wildest dreams.

Tell me something, please.
Do you dream in color,
or is they like mine
and all too often
caught in the mixture of black and white?

My love is faulty,
and imperfect too, just like I am.
I am faulted and flawed
but true,
just the same.

I admit—
I have fallen heavy and hard
and fast and this is all a risk.
I know.
I am unsure
who I am
if at all, am I enough?

I worry about this too.

I rush like the tides
and I race towards you
the same as the wild horses,
and yet, my rose
has yet to reach you, —or
maybe all that shows are my thorns
and the inaccuracies of my stems.
Maybe my only beauty appears to be malformed
and I appear gnarled or ugly
and the crooked branches that hold my rose
are the stems of my past.
Maybe I am like Calibos,
cursed by Zeus
and cursed to be ugly as ever
regardless of the rose from my heart

“I am dammed,” I think . . .

I know . . .

I don’t say that I want to be perfect.
I only want to be beautiful
(to you.)

But my fears imprison my ideas
and my worries tend to overflow
and lead me to believe
that I will be like the shore at low tide,
—too empty, foul, and off-putting,
and thus, I am too eager to feel the return
of the sea
which causes me to seem
unwanted.

I ask the stars:
Ever see the most beautiful girl
while she stands in the ocean?
I have
Ever wish to repeat a dream
and make love in the waves
as they roll on the beach?

Has anyone ever melted you
or melted your heart to the point
where everything you say
seems to fall short
and so
this almost to leaves you feeling
idiotic
as of all your words
will never come out right . . .

I shake my head
and clench my fists
because dammit all,
I failed too often
and hurt too much
and I hurt too many people
to be so afraid.

Dear God,
She is so beautiful.
Why did you make her this way?

And so,
I dream that the Heaven reply
“I know, son . . .
that’s why she’s been made like this
and just so you know,” says God the Father . . .

“I made her Just for you”

I hope so
otherwise,
heaven help me

Please