Pragmatism

My father raised me to be

a pragmatic man, a thinker,

a mind before a heart,

so when I see you for the first time

I know I won’t say these things.

I won’t say

that I’m a sucker for girls like you,

girls with a little bit

of honey in their smiles

and mischief in their eyes,

girls who look like

they can’t keep secrets,

girls whose souls

are made of stardust

and midnight whispers.

I won’t say

that I need to hear you speak,

to hear you laugh, just once,

so that I know the music

God breathed into your voice.

No, I am a pragmatic man,

so I won’t say these things.

I won’t say

that I want to set my heart to beat

in rhythm with your walk,

or that you are a lioness

in a world full of house cats.

I won’t say

that one glance from you

sets my hair on end,

convinces me that there is

reality in obscurity,

convinces me that these

words are more than words,

that these words are your words

are your thoughts

are truth,

convinces me that the

lightning on my tongue

and the thunder in my heart is real,

that you and I and us

are real.

I won’t say

that I love you.

No.

I will watch you walk away,

wordless, loveless,

as I quake to the bone

in the shadow of my love.