Because of You

They say that you should always love what you do.

I agree, completely.

I’m good at many things.

Loving a woman seems to be one of my greatest accomplishments.

There’s something about the way their hair falls across their shoulders.

The way that they push you away, when really they just want to be held.

Something about the gentle touch of a woman’s hand when she caresses your skin.

See, women think about it.

The touch…

They want you to feel it the way that they do.

There’s something almost carnal about falling that we all desire.

Even if we know it might tear us apart.

That risk sends a rush through our bodies, and our mouths go dry.

Like the effect of  riding a roller coaster.

Only falling in love has a higher possibility of injury, and probably death rate.

Because we’ve all thought at one time or another, that a broken heart might kill us.

Like I said. I’m great at loving a woman.

I can spend hours on end lying next to her soft shallow breath while she's deep in peaceful sleep.

The taste that lips leave when they've parted your own is the sweetest that I've experienced so far.
They wait, slightly parted, as you move in.

Soft. Supple.

Air, no longer existing between.

I’m great at loving a woman. But I’ve never been good at hanging around.

Commitment to me is foreign, even when it lies gently across her back.

The morning’s light inching through.

In the wee hours of the morning, I pack up my things and I run.

Back to my own home sanctuary.

The bed filled with pillows and memories.

Too afraid that she might ask me to stay a little longer, or worse…

She might ask me to stay forever.

It is there in my bed that I tuck myself in. alone, to reflect upon the touch,
and the taste, and the sound…

But sometimes she sounds like rainfall.
Gently weeping, pouring down across my heart.

Because I’m great at loving a woman, but being in love escapes me.

It causes my chest to tighten, and my palms to sweat.

Love is fine, until she’s “in” it…
Then it’s over my head and out of my grasp.

And when I hear a knock on my door, I debate not to answer.

It’s not so wrong to pretend I’m not home, is it?

I mean, after all… part of me isn't.

Part of me is still 2,000 miles away.

With my back pressed firmly against your dorm room door,
crying, as I call out your name.

I was in love then.

I needed you.

So I thought.

Little did I know that your back was pressed against his chest, his hands around your thighs. 

Holding your body like it was his.

Like he had won it at a silent auction that I had heard nothing about.

And when he walked out to use the restroom, wearing no shirt or acknowledgement,
I felt sick.

Nausea swept over me like a new broomstick.

Had one been within reach I might have broken it across his perfectly symmetrical face.

Instead I rose to my feet.

I wiped the tears from my eyes, and I peered inside your 12x12 ft room.

You  sat there on your bed wearing nothing but a blanket and a blank stare.

You looked right through me with no remorse.

The tension hung in the air like a cloud of “fuck you’s”.

I told you then that you owned no part of me.

And I haven’t given any part of myself away since.

Instead I write poems and stories about how perfect love is.

I tell them to myself over and over, settling the urge to give in.

No story is ever more passionate than the ones that I’ve written.

No woman is ever more perfect that the girl in my dreams.

Until now.

It’s been five years, and I’ve still not fought as hard, or loved as hard as we did…

Nor have I wanted to.

But this girl sets my heart on fire.

Makes my breath start and stop on command.

This girl can make me quiver with the sound of her voice.

And her touch brings me to my knees.

She hasn’t left my mind since the day that we met.

Hasn’t left my heart since the night we first kissed.

And  she hasn’t a clue.

Nor will I tell her.

Because of you.