Reading Heiroglyphics and the Shadows That Dance On the Wall
He impressed me, his eyes were reflections of fire, his wrists were his passion and his
hands drew patterns over my skin...
He glanced, over to the left, and I imagined something important must be written on the
walls...
There were shadows dancing, the way we kissed on moonlit nights, the way we played out
secrets and turned silence into games, and somewhere on the right side of all this, I
slept and he breathed and I learned how to read the
hieroglyphics
of us, the language of who we were...
“We're somewhere in the middle, Dear,” I told him as I traced my hands lightly over the
center of his chest, I watched his arms move, slightly, to pick up my past, and I made
figures under the blankets that saved us from the chill of March with my knees...
Every scar can be counted, every flaw tells a story, and I knew they were written upon the
way he furrowed his brow, I knew that if I counted the moments in which he kept his eyes
closed, I could find the letters that wrote his sentences...
I could speak like him and amaze myself...
I could corner him and back out before he trapped the meaning of trust...
“You don't have to worry,” I told him as he breathed the air we slept in, “You are poetry,
the embodiment of my words, you are the ink captured secrets that appear on my every page,
you are the tear stained notebook that holds herself through years, and you are the
corners in my pages, carefully folded over, carefully...
bent.”
He replied with a dream, he replied with a breath, and he impressed me, his smile, and the
shadow he placed on the left side of my walls when I got stuck
somewhere
in
the
middle.
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