a literal metaphor

It seems like I moved through the world always puzzled,
forever the girl who would pull loose ends of strings
just to see what would happen, sometimes unraveling what was enmeshed,
always seeking sources but rarely finding myself pleased
with what I discovered. It's my curse, perhaps,
or maybe my blessing, this ability to trace but not

a commensurate ability to leave those threads in the knot
holding them in place, to find a shape but never fit the puzzle
pieces together. My blessing, or curse, perhaps,
to myself be a single piece of string
unfrayed by association from those who'd fret or please
me, to hold myself apart from what might ensnare

me past my point to divine myself. What matter, my yearning to entwine,
to create something lovely with another thread by knotting
ourselves into complex beauty? I thought it past my ability to please
anyone well enough, to find someone who matches the edges of my worn puzzle
piece and interlock to form an image, to find a hue of string
which harmonizes well with my own mild blue-- to be matched, perhaps

in complement, or alternately in contrast, perhaps.
So long I've sought one I could embrace,
someone to join me in stitching us close with strings
of conversation, someone who might love me when I think I'm not
worthy of love, the one who'd strive to solve the puzzle
I present, that person who might seek to please

me, and in that pleasure find themself well pleased.
I wasn't sure that I deserved them, had earned them, perhaps
felt that the loss of one proved me forever an unmatched piece of a puzzle,
a letter never sent and doomed to remain unenveloped.
How thrilling, then, to have these fears dispelled, to not
remain in the grip of these tangled dreads, to slice the anxiety-frayed string

with your sharp wit and let you reel me close with love's stronger string.
How long I've waited for the touch that would not panic but please,
for limber arms and legs to catch me in a knot
of adoration and proximity, to find, perhaps,
the perfect one with whom to entangle
both our hearts into one perfectly aligned puzzle.

Bind us together with delicate strings which we may perhaps
find durable enough to please our hearts entwined:
no longer uncomplemented, not to stay an unsolved puzzle.

They say you can't love anyone if you don't love yourself.
I stared long and hard into the mirror's surface
and eventually I started to accept the flaws I never
thought of as lovable before I had learned to stand
on my own two feet, even if I could only stand for an hour.
I found myself in a field lit only by stars,

found the single one I would call my star,
found my star every time I couldn't love myself,
coming back night after night to the field that was ours.
I walked by the water and saw myself below the surface,
walked on the ice to make a stand
against this frozen side of me that could never

thaw enough to feel the warmth of flame, never
find the spot of sky that holds my star,
never reach out far enough to take his hand.
If I wanted him, first I had to love myself,
so I pulled my frozen side through the surface
of the ice, held her in my arms for hours,

told her my history, hers, ours,
and slowly melted the ice that had bound her forever.
It felt like holding my breath under the surface
of the shining sea of light, witnessed by my star,
becoming one with this newly loved part of myself,
feeling the chill as my hand touched her hand

and overlapped, as we united, and
it took a year, or maybe an hour,
but at the end I loved my entire self
with a frantic single-mindedness I never
should have turned upon another, but like my star,
he'd been my constant reminder of why I had to look beyond the surface

of my teary eyes, delve beneath the surface
of my shallow thoughts. He was why I loved myself,
and how should I not have loved my lucky star?
I brought him to the dark field I considered ours
and showed him where I'd looked for comfort, ever
finding his brightness to turn me back to myself.

He never had trouble seeing past my surface,
but never saw me as a shining star,
and never told me how he saw himself, for all we talked for hours.

You knew that you were what I needed,
so when I turned around, you were a ghost.
Any good mistake is worth repeating; every
time I said "I love you," expressed my wants,
did you think my words were just blowing smoke?
You knew my desires and thwarted them. Have

I ever learned my lesson? It seems I have
hit upon the way to never get just what I need--
simply ask you for it. Sitting on the porch exhaling smoke
and dreams, my breath shaped a ghost
out of your name. Come here, I want
to tell you a secret: you were never

just a man to me, not once in memory were you ever
simply physical, and you may never be. You have
a gravity to you, words and glance and gesture. I want
your focus, I wanted for a while to be what you needed
like you were for me. When I'm a ghost
I will haunt your grave with longing and the scent of smoke.

I don't know how to cope besides to smoke.
The stress has been getting to me. Did you ever
think of how I felt, or was I just a ghost
occasionally troubling your thoughts? I have
to know, even if it hurts. I think I need
to trouble you if I can't be what you want.

I wish you would have told me what you want.
No sweet, no liquor, no intoxicating smoke,
and I guess not me, either. Did you ever need
to hold me reverently in your mind or did you never
think to ask yourself what I could be for you? I have
to admit I'd still give you anything-- my breath, my ghost,

my body or my love. I'm haunted by the ghost
of who I could have been for you, if I'd been what you want
even for an hour. Tell me now, what have
you wished for in secret? Did the smoke
of the torch I carry for you never
once bring tears to your eyes? What do you need?

I choke my love with smoke and let the ghost
rise and soar away. You need to know I never
wavered in my devotion: you are what I want, what I need.

My dearest love, please close your eyes
and while I hold you tightly in my arms
accept that I cannot control myself.
You are the only thing that can keep
me sane and quiet on these rainy nights.
Allow me to show you my gratitude.

It's rare for you to express gratitude--
the thanks you give me come more from your eyes
than from your words. When, in the night,
you come and enfold me in your arms,
that is exactly what I cannot use to keep
these words of love tucked deep within myself.

Yet, sometimes, I regret your lovely self
offered to me in twisted gratitude
and sympathy. If what I most desire to keep
is offered only when I'm most in pain, my eyes
would be forfeit, I would give what would most harm
me to lose, to keep you with me every night.

But--oh-- the endlessness and dark of nights
spent with the ghosts that haunt my former self
terrify me... with you, I am well-armed
to defend my soul. The pure gratitude
shining through my unfrightened eyes
seems to touch you. "I wish I could keep

that look on your face forever." Then just keep
us here like this, beloved, through the night
and I swear I'll stay this joyful. Although eyes
might close in weariness, my inner self
will not sleep, but cry out in gratitude.
There is no safer place than in your arms.

The morning sun beguiles with its charm,
the dark of night is the moon's lonely keep--
but you provide my light-- with gratitude
and love, I set my course by you at night
and chart my travels by your radiant self
by day, when you are still dear to my eyes.

I could not keep my gratitude inside--
my eyes told you, my arms spoke the words
that in the night, our selves echoed silently.

The taste between my lips is tartly sweet--
pomegranate staining them a deep and bloody red--
but my favorite fruit is little more than ashes
in my mouth. You've come-- gone-- left
me here alone, my thoughts my only company,
you with green glass curled in your elegant fingers.

I can't help but try to catch you with curled fingers
as you walk away from me; it's bittersweet
to realize there's no time I don't want your company;
while here, I am surrounded by books unread,
berated on all sides by duties undone, writing left
for another day. My notebooks turn to ashes.

Still, there's a phoenix risen from these ashes
where my inspiration died, reaching with fingers
turned into claws. They sank into me, and left
one venomous talon. Delirium drags sweet
and simple words from me, written in red,
pleading: I beg for anyone's company.

I'm bound to die unloved, longing for your company;
one kiss before my body is consigned to ashes.
Better to be remembered truthful, blushing red,
than shy and lying perpetually behind my fingers.
Just kiss me tart and pomegranate-sweet
(which is to say not sweet at all) before you're left

alone here with my pyre. Flame will be all that's left--
no need for excusing away the company
never offered. The thought is sweet--
but there is work yet to do, and I am not yet ashes.
There's my story, there's my pen in shaky fingers,
my words still to be written, to be read.

My fingertips are stained with sticky red--
once juice is licked away, blood will be what's left.
There's nothing more to write with bleeding fingers,
no further pleas tonight for your unwilling company.
Here I burn the rinds of fruit into a pile of ashes,
leaving on my tongue only a faint memory of sweet.

The frantic hyperbole pushing my fingers burns out to ashes.
Left after the exaggeration is something almost sweet:
My request for your company in a note yet to be read.