deaf or blind
I would rather live in a world of darkness
than one without your voice.
The first time you sang to me
I was struck by how
your voice is the exact
amalgamation of
Bob Dylan and my grandfather -
- Janis Joplin, were she male.
Gruff
and intensely lighthearted.
It is not a perfect voice.
(It's better.)
It is yours.
However, I could no sooner be
blind than deaf,
for to live in a world where I
cannot see your face
would be worse than to
not live at all.
I love your crooked nose
and how it
wrinkles to perfectly accent
your smile
when you're caught off guard
and
a giggle bursts forth
from your lips
unable to be stifled.
It's not a perfect nose.
It is yours.
Your hair is perpetually unkempt
as though your stubbornness
(that which brought us together)
wishes to manifest itself in
callicks
as numerous as your curls.
No, your hair is not perfect.
It is yours.
Your hands are
rough and calloused
with knuckles broken by
determination and
dedication.
Yet, the way your fingers
brush through my hair
is neither rough nor callous.
They are not perfect,
but those hands are yours.
And your eyes...
your eyes are the most wonderful of all.
The heterochromia of
hazel and chocolate brown
is only distinguishable in
a certain light,
or when my lips are pressed against yours,
a physical testament
to the complex duplicity of your soul.
I am distorted,
warped and disfigured
like looking into a
shattered funhouse mirror.
Pieces of me are
visible in grotesque plurality
while other pieces
are missing
completely.
I am not perfect.
No.
But I was when I was yours.