The Language That Is Mine

I want
         to pinpoint this.
              I'm like a crime scene investigator, staring at the wall I've covered in overlapped scraps of  information, facts and theory,
clippings of fragmented
                  feelings..
                     
                       I stand back, tilt my head like the angle viewed is going to make a difference.
                       I'm decoding, analyzing hints,suspecting clues; the infraction:  my love for you.
                                             And I want to
                                             add it up,
compare,
contrast,
           simplify,
                  find a reason why,
                                                                   a motive for my heart's rebellion.
                                                                     
 My mind
shines the light, searching
          to expose, drilling as hours pass but my heart won't speak.
Instead she counts the minutes, waiting to escape, plotting her next move.
            She sees
            something I don't
              or, rather, cares not for rhyme or reason, explanations,
                                     sense.

The writing's black and white but the lines are blurred
                             and what should be is not
                             and what should not be is.

                                                    Desirous cravings, hormonal, temperamental,
                                                                        vision clouded by recent famine, you've intruded
                                                                         into all I thought I knew.
                                                                         I sift through
your indecision, comb uncertainty
                                           and come up in equal knots, a categorical, entangled mess.
                                                                                  The elements
dissent and I protest but
                        oh,
 it's no use.
I can't steady any supposition, proposition, the mad frenzy of imagination trumping meaning.
    Apologize for absence with jagged excuse,
                                                      dim the lights, I'll forget the schism between what I know and what I  want,
flex beneath every unuttered promise,
                                            parse not for missing punctuation,
waste in expectation till
      the truth
settles like dust upon my shoulders, bare.

            It's coming and the wind is blowing,
                                          whispering her own  amour,
                                                                         alleviating all
remaining compositions of unmatched
                     parallels, drawing
                                             genius from my
countenance,
metaphor from proof, manifesting
mystery from my
    sinner's strut.
            Reduction, renewal,
            reaffirming weighty
                             the purpose of the song.

I'll leave
you lambent, basking
            better, not my own.
                   Relish rareness,
                       I like your quiet way.  I won't retract
                                             the language
                                              that is mine
but
    the muse,
             she goes with me, poesy prancing
                                        past your narrations so
                                                        neatly lengthened.

Free will carries far.

       
Wonder Wednesday