Impossibility

Love her for that crooked grin
how it comes in spite
when you intrigue her
make those eyes
like mischievous imp.

Love her for that dance
the way she moves not quite enough her hips
but just enough
in this rhythm
(it lives inside)
not controlled by brain
but by beat
membranes shaking
limbs striking -
(soul dance)

Love her for those eyes
the way they live under odd eyebrows
shivering
and the eyes -
they hold secrets
they crinkle at odd times
and they’ll tell you when she’s faking.

Love her for those scars
the way they glare at those staring
the way they sit rather haphazardly
no sense of shape, line, or graph -
just emotion, pure, raw -
uninhibited.

Love her for those calloused feet
how they always have some dirt to them
how she calls them steel toes
and would rather live barefooted.

Love her for those tears
that well up in waves
then recede for weeks
that fall in quiet corners
with a flushed face
that looks away at first but then raises the chin,
and perhaps buries itself in your shoulder.

Love her for those words,
the verses that fill her head
and spill out in
uncharted increments
and flow
sometimes as silk
sometimes as knives
onto a cursed page.

Love her for that music
the way she hears it
not too often outside her
but always some depth within
that quells her
shakes her
and sometimes calms her -
find her heart and
find yours in that music.

Love her for those dreams that flood her eyes
usually as some darker taint
the world in flames or
the world in dance
something primal
some vision she believes wholeheartedly
will be the future
that you know wholeheartedly
might never happen.

Love her is was will be,
as she hates herself
as she writes such commands to
make someone believe -
(yes, sometimes, yes, I know what I want
I want you
to love me for
this)
as she believes in
possibility
so too you believe in the
impossibility
of you running from a heart so
flooded
worn
and strong.