patience, lover, patience

Patience. Love. Understanding. Repeat. Patience. Love. Understanding. Repeat.
Remember all those moments you tried so hard and the wasteland they ended up in?
You threw grapes at him while he was cooking with his back turned towards you, because you didn’t know how else to direct the bursting ache in your chest. The same one you got when you watched him shave. The one that forced its way out of your eyes when he let you shave him.
Perhaps connection is one you should take, not wait to be given.
Wait for the dark.
Let your open mouth hover over his lips and nose while he’ sleeping and wait for him to exhale, so you can try to steal his breath at night. It may be as close as you’ll get.
You know he’ll never be able to give you the understanding that rustling leaves can. He won’t let you make a fist around him and listen for the crunch the way they do. The way they trust you.
Oh, your fingers. They want a lot. They really do.
But they can hold and give you back so much. Paintbrushes, car steering wheels, type, type, type,. Turn on the shower, turn on the shower, pump up the volume. Yes, that song. Put the cork back in the fucking bottle.
Perhaps it really was all so much easier when you could blame the emptiness on circumstance. When you let them trickle through a revolving door, one by one because you felt pretty giddy when you ran your fingers up a big hard cock and for a sweat and tear filled while it all didn’t matter so much anymore. You didn’t expect to feel anything more than that. And there were no games to play.
I am tired of playing. I am looking forward to touching the air with my fingertips again. It never pulls back. I am looking forward to golden sunshine that is merciful and caressing. I am looking forward to autumn. And I am not afraid today at all.