Early November

Edits made thanks to lepperochan. Thank you, sir.
 
 
Early November  
 
If all the words  
that fill the English Dictionary  
and that Jordie Shore programme  
and the indisputable knowledge of the World Wide Web  
could evoke  
 
in him or in me    
  
a response, that would allow us to slow,  
      
I wouldn't want it.  
 
I'd spend my time ushering those silent words  
down the garden path with a wooden broom.    
I'd spend my time  
washing them round the plug hole  
with ample bleach.  
You see though we, he and I, (sometimes too often) struggle,  
it's become entirely important to me.  
It is as if we should have always been here  
spatting
and making up.    
  
When the morning sprinkles down  
from the uncut trees of my bedroom view  
the back of me will still ache from a pounding.    
He'll kiss the base of my spine  
before he leaves because  
  
it is all sacred to us.    
  
Exchanges and compromises that create a perfection
we both comprehend.      

Though I  
do  
go  
on  
using foolish metaphors and announcing things  
that should, perhaps, stay behind    
our closed doors.    
  
It's only because  
I need  
someone to talk to    
and tonight that happens  
to be you    
and I wouldn't put my drivel here  
to be set  
in stone,  
to be held in time  
to fill the World Wide Web with more words, after words, after words,    
if I wasn't aware  
of the extent  
to which  
I love  
him.