Parts of my soul

You are my calm before
the storm.

Though you have recently
been a hurricane that leaves
debris neglected to be picked
up with the heavy force winds.

You can almost, I do mean almost,
be compared to that of a tornado.
One that engulfs the entrails of my
soul just to spit them out as though
they were lukewarm and much too voluptuous.

I don’t
want to see you with my eyes,
or hear you with my ears,
or even smell your cologne,
or be able to taste your
lips.

What I want is to see you
without my eyes,
to be completely blind to
every imperfection.
I’d like to pretend I couldn’t
see just for an hour or two
and touch your face to remember
every mark.

I’d like to listen to your heartbeat
rather than the sound of your voice.
I’d like to hear you sing while my
head is dunked under water.
It may sound a bit strange at first
but it’ll help me to know your
voice like the back of my hand later on.

I’d really like to know every good
and bad smell about you.
I would even go as far as to meet with
you after a long gym session, because then
I would be conversant in your true nature.
I’d rather you throw away all the
helpful colognes for a day so I
could appreciate your true smell.

I won’t go into the taste portion,
but just know that your lips are definitely
a body part I’d like to kiss.
I want your lips to be incredibly familiar
but still as tantalizing as the first kiss.
I’d give anything to hold you in my
arms as we realize that we are falling,
knowingly,
in-love with each other.
I wouldn’t be opposed to kissing you on
the forehead every time you need
a little TLC, and I most definitely would love
to kiss you on the cheek if you showed up
in your “Sunday Best” for lunch with my
family on the weekends.

Boy, I can’t wait to meet you as a man.

The child watched his father
as he moved around the
backyard watering his
garden as though his life
depended on it.

The child wanted so much
to just be taken care of,
nursed, and noticed as
much as the blooming
buds of the latest
purchase from Lowe’s Garden Center.

Yet, the child couldn’t
find the voice or the
courage to speak the
truth that sat deep in
his heart.

So, it crept on until the
father was much too old
to care for the garden;
on his deathbed, the son
sat near him too scared to
hold his father’s hand.

The father said,
“Tonight, I want to die
like the sunset; I must fall
out of a dream right into
the arms of the True Gardener.
I pray you’ll one day be there, too.
But make sure you bring your
shovel and soil so we can plant
together, son.
Until then…this is the key to my garden
shed, please, take care of my
garden. I made it for you, afterall.”

The son couldn’t reply,
the tears were clouding his vision
and his throat felt as though
he had tried to choke down a lemon.

“Father, I love you, you know?
I’m sorry that I haven’t told you in
a long time, and I always wanted
to help you with your garden but
I was so afraid you would say no…
Dad?”

An alarm went off in reply,
something or other about a code
red, the room filled up with strangers
in white coats, and there sat the
son gripping his father’s hand
realizing he had waited much too
long to say what he always wanted
to say.