superfluous sincerity

My heart drowns in its own superfluous sincerity.

Somewhere between the waxing and waning of a thousand embraces, we’ve tangled tusks. Now, even my elephant’s memory cannot recall what it feels like to look ahead without seeing your steady eyes anchoring the horizon: a compass home. Or maybe my neck muscles, strong as they are under this thick gray skin, don’t care to turn my head away long enough for a look backwards. Because there is always something new written in the gingerly folded wrinkles of your forehead, waiting for me to read with elephant’s patience. And never does the warming look in those dark eyes abandon its pupil post when they are turned in my direction; not just a compass home, but an encompassing of home. And there’s no where else I’d rather have these heavy feet take me.
(Photo credit: Tumblr) 

Somewhere between the waxing and waning of a thousand embraces, we’ve tangled tusks. Now, even my elephant’s memory cannot recall what it feels like to look ahead without seeing your steady eyes anchoring the horizon: a compass home. Or maybe my neck muscles, strong as they are under this thick gray skin, don’t care to turn my head away long enough for a look backwards. Because there is always something new written in the gingerly folded wrinkles of your forehead, waiting for me to read with elephant’s patience. And never does the warming look in those dark eyes abandon its pupil post when they are turned in my direction; not just a compass home, but an encompassing of home. And there’s no where else I’d rather have these heavy feet take me.

(Photo credit: Tumblr) 

  • 6 February 2013
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