Cupid Confession
There’s a cello in my heart, writhing where the bow draws narrow and taut. Your eyes become arrows at a glancing, and somehow I am centered in their crosshairs.
Margins intersect into marksmen. Tethers pluck me into harp-like action. Every string in me begins to tremble—until even I, bow at the knees.
I assume I must be dreaming, because proximity to you still feels unfathomable. Faintly palpable.
Your laughter. Your coo. Your every point of view— each reverberation sending ripples of joy Ringing through me.
Your haunting is a blessing. There is tension in the silence. But what am I confessing?
A desire that ricochets violently? through every chamber I have tried to keep still.
In the depths of my dreams, in the marrow in-between, where even my bones have learned to feel too deeply, I shiver in the silence.
You would find me unbothered. Oceans do not move me. But your presence is tidal, and every arrow finds something vital.
You are a moon tugging at my waters. I can feel you in my sweat, in my tears, in every quiet current beneath my skin.
How I would lasso you closer, If only to tie myself to your fingers. I ache for that strum—for the thrum that shakes loose the numb.
So I wait at thresholds, half-still, half-falling, just to be swept up in your gravity.
Immeasurable pleasure. Pressure. Leisure.
in your proximity.