i will write myself
a part
in your life
if you'll do the same
in mine
i cannot write it for you
need to figure out
my own
next line
and in between these lines
and hanging from each chosen word
the thicket of the things
we didn't say
the things we thought we heard
but didn't
here
in the space
of things left as yet ill-defined
i hide
from all the words
i wish i had not used
or left behind
or just left out
or waited
till the time was right
to try and say
or thought it through
a little longer
lest my haste
scare you away
these heavy curtains never
really open in this theatre
of dreams
defined to death
by actors
clubbing empty aching screaming loneliness into submission
clouded by their misconception
caught up in their abreaction
trapped in chains of indecision
fluttering and imprecision
but
this is not a theatre
and words -- like plays -- are dead
compared to life
the way you make me feel alive
(perhaps i do the same to you --
i hope i do -- i'm trying to...)
and parts once played
must wither
they may not be played again
(forget this at your peril
it's the origin of pain)
you're playing chicken with
my heart
so i'll return you truth or dare
now take my hand
now kiss my lips
now close your eyes
and shh...
just there...
Poems For My Analyst by Wayne Myers