thoughts spilled on pages

And here i am, turning in circles,

writing too much about you in my journals,

being too much of myself, too greedy,

wanting too much, giving out too freely,

sharing my soul and sharing my heart

before you've even had a chance to start

feeling too attached already as if

there's only you between me and the cliff

and don't get me wrong I won't call this love yet

but I wouldn't be mad about you in my bed

though I am mad about you on my mind

I don't really like you and your kind

because you do know the way your mouth spins

smiles and laughter and so many hints

that i can't possibly carry them all

my hands and my heart are way too small

and why'd I be willing to give you a chance?

If you asked me sweetly enough for a dance

your lips curled up and your hand reaching out

i simply would take it and shush my doubt

i could study you, your movement, your words

your taste in music, your dislike of herds

because I want to know how you think

want to put it all down with my pen and my ink

want to pin you down like an insect for inspection

learn each wrinkle and each imperfection and

there's something about your eyes and your grin

that dares me to kiss you, it lures me in

despite the taste of cigarettes and lies

pretentiousness and thoughtful sighs

i do know you and your kind, my friend

and i sure do know how this story will end

in the name of what? That's how it starts:

a letter. a smile. a fragment of Marx.

Do I fascinate you or do you fascinate me?
Is there a difference to what we could be?

Am I reading too much into it already?
It's like walking a tightrope, steady, steady

i know i'm getting ahead of myself

that a conversation, a name is a mere thing on a shelf

nevertheless, my craft is spinning stories

so it would be a shame if my worries

were in the way of a good one.

a bright one. It's true.

I might have gotten too deep into you.

e.j.l. // 16.04.2019