I wish I could say that I have my head
on straight, that my eyes
can see clearly, that my mouth
speaks anything but what my heart
wants to believe, that there isn't a pit in my stomach
that I'm always reaching to fill with grasping hands.
But I can't, as when they grasp, my hands
grasp for you, and it is not my head
that makes that decision, but my stomach,
because I'm hungry for your eyes
on me. Look at me, and I'll give you my heart
through your mouth
like medicine. Close your mouth,
swallow it, and hold me in your hands
(you have hands now where your heart
would be, after all). I will rest my weary head
in the warm glow of your eyes,
in your ravenous stomach.
I wish I was enough to fill your stomach.
I wish my devotion was so sweet in your mouth
that you'd be compelled to rest your eyes,
your busy hands,
and I could press my head
just like old times, to your heart.
But you no longer have a heart,
you just have a stomach.
Even so, I stick my head
in your bottomless mouth
and reach out my hands,
hoping they'll find something my eyes
cannot — after all, eyes
are for seeing, and you need feeling to find a heart.
That's why I squeeze them shut and kneel with clasped hands;
do anything you ask, though I feel sick to my stomach.
And if you find that it's not love that shapes my mouth
into prayers, just don't think I've lost my head.
It's only natural when we've both got a stomach but share a heart
that I'd climb into your mouth and you'd get into my head.
So close your eyes, my love, and let's pretend to hold hands.
