Whenever I try to draw you in letters, I cannot for the life of me capture all those peaks and ridges and plains of your body. I can't even grasp the sad, dopey eyes that sit in your sockets surrounded by heavy velvet curtains, telling me that you found better things to do last night than sleep. Those fingers mock my patience when I begin to write, the little wands that cast spells over paper, that branch from your arms and lay claim to your heart. Your lips cannot be described in P's and Q's well enough to show more than the line of your frown- and that fact pulls at my fingernails and screams in my dreams when I can finally close my eyes. My eyes that seek yours in begrudging frustration when I realize I don't know who I am when I am with you.
What do I say when we are together?
Am I meant to be more than the speechless girl who seems to dust salt on all of her windowsills so that she won't embarrass herself when the demons arrive? But don't I like being the wallflower and not the tea kettle that screams out because it wants to play too?
But when I think about the brushing of your skin on that sheet of paper, the way you pull back to examine how well you can make ideas into pictures (unlike how I can put you to words), I realize this:
There is a time and a place to sit on the wall and I believe it is time I took up a career in kettle whistling.