Freckle

Am I a writer?
Do I write in order to become a writer,
or is it like a nose, or my eyes.
Something is simply is. A part of my human
complexion.
Speckled words freckled on my screen,
lines, aged lines, that form in the ridges of a
well-thumbed page.

I sneeze. and I write it. Immediate yet conscious.
I don't think it should be conscious, only immediate.
Like the grabbing of her arm when I walk.
It should be like brushing my teeth. Maybe writing
would be more unconscious if I didn't think about
brushing my teeth.

Meanwhile I have these words of others.
The ones I must analyze, scattered and dispersed,
for points. Freckled in my
periperhary. She uses words like iridescence and
emerald.
It's understated and calm. A meditation in the form
of precise, extraordinary detail.
Like a scientist describing the phenomenon of
feeling, silver and cold dark deep.

I wonder what will become of these hands. Will they
hold yours or another. Will they always seek yours
in ways that aren't how you think.
I want your hands like a child?
To walk the woods with you and teach you my
freckles. Like ancestors.
I want to skim stones with you and speak until
all sense falls asleep.
Watch the cinema shots that make you inhale,
involuntarily.

It seems hopeful, too human? It seems true. Little
and golden.
Simple two.
Words and hands and eyes.
That way others can hold your small body and dip
the tip of their noses into your heart that is oversized,
like the snow flakes that press themselves down on
the small
branches of a young oak tree.

I can then go and see if others smile like I do.

I can see if others have beautiful eyes. "I'll watch you
through the smokey haze."
We have metaphysical string tied in a deep full bow
between us.
And it's made of silverwood. Elastic and firm. It
swims and freezes but it unties, never.

Silverwood like hazelwood but made of moon
and the sky on cold days. Made out wind and that
soft sound you make when you wake in the morning.

I still feel lost, like an old traveller. Pocket knife
worn and stupid, and brass leather bag filled with hours.
There will be this feeling until I find another
traveller.
Take me with you. Let me clasp your pinky as
they cheer.
As people grow from you, let me swing
on that disobedient curl. Winter comes and let me
sleep in the arc of your neck in between the vertebra.

One day when our joys and tears write
themselves into our old freckles and the creases of faces,
We will smile knowingly and pick them away, one
by one. Until all that is left is simple and two and
golden.