Though I May Try … There is No Perfect Place nor Time to Love You
When I first wrote my name on your body
it was as a child would.
Grabbing every crayon from the box.
Trees were purple and blue.
Grass was orange.
The sky yellow.
The dog red.
Didn’t understand the lines and curves I slalomed over aimlessly
with my broad strokes.
I needed to feed my ego.
Not my soul.
My tongue poking out and wrapped tight around my upper lip
because I wanted to prove I could master this creation.
Nonetheless you guided me patiently.
Life weathered hands cupped my face to steer my eyes.
I inhaled your musk letting it drape my throat.
Ignoring my hubris.
The soft slopes of your body
were not defined by the lines
of Gauguin nor Degas.
You tried to teach me this
as you pealed back your supple layers
turning another page.
I foolishly ripped it.
Reckless though I was
you let me lay beside you.
Plucking the caramel of your skin
and the cinnamon dusted over it
as a boy would.
Lying on your side I saw your true form
Your hips ripe and full
imbued with the strength of ebony
not the meek ramblings of a blown dandelion.
The concentric circles of your breasts
giving flight to my infinite dreams
feeding my hapless soul.
I listen to your heart
and it says you still want me to stay
though others lay lies like train tracks
So I’ll put away the crayons
and use my spine for a quill
trying to define the undeniable that is
I don’t belong to you
You always seem to want me
And just take me at the most ungodly hours
I’m the mistress you need to make sense of the world
You spread me open
Forcing your face deep within
I ride the bridge of your nose
And wrap myself dutifully around your sentinels
gauging the waves as your temple pulses
with each discovery of the unexplored yet familiar
You find shelter and comfort in my arms
because what others hear as the ramblings and mutterings of a crazy man
is a passion filled symphony between you and I
you the maestro
And I your baton
We see the world together
Changing the ominous
to the obvious
I don’t belong to you
Stop stroking my arms like that
Nibbling on them
And then expecting me to be on you and
Get your own pair of glasses
Because I don’t belong to you
C. Z. Heyward is a poet, writer, spoken word artist, and playwright whose sociopolitical work has found platforms in France, Greece, and the United Kingdom. The Harlem (NYC) born educator is currently pursuing his PhD at St. John’s University in New York. Learning to skateboard, surf, and one day swim with whale sharks are a few of his bucket list pursuits.