Running Out of Words

How do I say this?
I am a poet,
a writer.
I have no lack for words.
No lack for lexicon.
And yet here I am.
A hypocrite?

I’ve run astray.
Some road in some other direction
some other way.
How have I come upon a pitfall?

How can I say
that

I am blind.
You have the eyes,
my hands reach out ceaselessly
catch on your arm, your waist, your chest.
And I stumble as I follow after.
You have my eyes.
They see the sunsets, the rises,
the dewdrops on petals
a thousand miles away
and yet they ignore anything they might have seen
elsewise caught upon you.

And should it matter
that I am deaf beyond your voice.
All of the songs sound like your song,
I’ve listened so long,
I don’t hear all the other words.
All the things that you cannot say,
that you do not,
are somehow filtered.
An oblivion awaits them,
the graveyard in my mind
of all of the things I never cared to remember.

And if I do not have your scent
somewhere on my clothes,
they do not feel like mine.
As if I stole those of some prisoner
and will not return them,
because this is a row on the lane of death
and he has been executed
for his monopolizing effect.
A crime you committed him to.
And yet you remain
unattended,
predisposed
as innocent
for a crime you commit to my heart
every damn day.
Am I guilty too?

And you have my taste.
It is a venom
coating my tongue,
a taste is but a poison,
unless placed by your lips.
Your kiss…
It has caught my guard.
Shattered what I thought I knew.
What I was supposed to know.
All logic. All concentration.
Everything that matters,
washed away,
to bleed into some eternity
beneath some misty abyss.
I didn’t think… I never thought…
Kiss me, love. Kiss me until
my lips are so worn
that they only fit to yours.

And touch? Should I mention touch?
Have I the words to describe
a thousand bolts of lightning
shooting through my veins
every second of every day
that you hold me in that way,
until my nerves are so frayed
that they are numb.
Numb to the pain, the blood.
The scars have started healing,
it seems every place your lips touch me,
your hands grace…
it is as if you’re skin is a salve.
I cannot erase the past,
but you can.
And I don’t understand it.

And I don’t understand,
how I cannot rhyme,
it is a poem,
and mine always rhyme,
whether for you or myself,
they always rhyme.

But I’m running out of words
and I’m reaching at the bottom of the barrels
grasping for the silver, flourescent fish
that escape me.
Because the words just don’t come
the way they once did.