Abstaining

I try to shield your eyes from sunlight
when it becomes overbearing,
yet you never ask how I like my
warmth, in subtle airbrushes of
noontide or yearning for
clouds to watch and fill us.

You act as if this is California's
aurora, and not the uniform of
Indiana we're living under.

I've found out through nature
what has called me and what has
left me without a story-
My poetry is a denuded swan;
and I'm still pondering if you'll
ever weave me feathers,
or say you'll read in between
my flights and understand
their depth.

For I feel like I've been writing
to myself for a decade, speculating
when someone will want to discover
me- someone like you

someone who will not move away from
me, because I am threadbare,
widening nights so I may train
emotions how egression works.

I have yet to leave my nodding
neck and congenial face
for reason that I can't withdraw
from you.

But you've missed who I am

and you don't try, anymore.

Written August 8, 2012 at 3:19 pm.
*Not about anyone in particular, just got momentary frustration out.