romance

Somewhere I have Never Traveled, Gladly Beyond

by E.E. Cummings


somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

,your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands




one of my favorites. I want someone to say that line to me "nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands."

romance isn't poetry or grand gestures. it isn't a trip to Italy or Paris. romance is commitment. it's the throwdown. it is the ugly and everything in between. the sheets. and you showing up at my front door after an argument.






I often forget that this blog is not private.