Spoons

I imagine that I come off as possessive in the way that I speak, possessive of the people that I love, as if I have some sort of claim to their presence. My love is not as free as it might seem, as I pull it up from underneath those same people when I feel the time is right. I don’t think I do it out of malice or in such a way as to mistreat somebody that I care for. It’s more like when you look into a mirror and don’t recognize the person you’ve become. With love comes mistakes. Mistakes made both in and out of harbored disdain. Disdain that builds up after expectations fall upon ears incapable of understanding. I think herein lies my most distasteful fault, I am possessive over that which I require when it comes to having my own cup filled up by others. My heart is adamant about the ways in which it has deemed adoration to be suitable. A table is made for dining, the forks and spoons and plates and knives aligned meticulously. I point out individually, these separate objects and the principles behind them. A spoon is something easy on the eye, delicate yet strong and not particularly easy to bend. It’s elegant and reflective of the one that casts their gaze upon it. A plate is smooth and decorated, with images depicted. It holds space for safety, for concern and comfort. I feel that when I label things as I see fit that once must be enough, that these are sacred words that hold meaning to a man like me. There’s even pretty tablecloths and paintings on the walls, I try to maintain beauty in the things I put my time into. One might notice how the outside world finds itself deafened in the room. One might find the temperature set to where everyone is comfortable, the light just right and polished floors for making love upon. I am obsessed with what I think to be perfection but I think that what is perfect to me may sometimes be much too much to ask. Yet I am tangled up inside myself at such a thought, where fingernails claw and teeth tear at my entirety. I am at odds with what I want, as if the safety of always getting what you ask for is akin to gluttony or some other deadly sin. Sometimes I wonder if the tapestries and photographs are just meant as ways to hide the inner workings of a madman. Sometimes I wonder if the silverware is tarnished and the plates all chipped beyond a normal person’s recognition. Sometimes I wonder if the people that I love walk in and choke on stale air and trip up on the cracks within the floorboards. Perhaps their feet are cut and poked by nails that I missed when searching for a grip on sanity. I wish the things I needed didn’t taste so much like poison to the ones I love. I wish the things I needed weren’t in fact all that important but they are. I create a safe space for my love to flourish, like needing glass to make up all the walls inside a greenhouse. In my own mind it is wonderful to walk about and feel the fronds and leaves and fawn over each other when the sunlight steps inside. The books that I’ve picked out all tell the kind of stories that would sing someone to sleep. The mist is formed from breaths that lovers take. It gathers on the windowpanes and in the corners of the doorframe. Some little ecosystem where a kiss can feed a fern, where a sudden change in breathing patterns feeds the evening ever after. I think these things work well together. I’m not afraid to stay and wait. I think sometimes the people that come in think that the doors might lock behind them but such a tale is not true. Everyone is free to come and go, everyone is free to roam and turn up every stone within the garden of my love. There are thorns but if you’re careful they don’t bite.