Born Confused

it’s not about love but strength to help another when your afraid to. so i suppose love in a compassionate sense–but i just wanted to clarify.

head spinning. head sinning? this question in my head and in my heart as i dial numbers too farly spaced apart. now i started, advice was given to me. my leg twitches, my heart stitches and i hold my breath too soon. scared to have a mans heart on my plate, a wound? trust, bust, i clutch the blanket at my breast, hoping my voice will bring on rest–is this a test? And his voice comes out surprised, then low and hoarse sounding vulnerable trying to cover it up, inside, with comfortable slang, with a low flavor–a certain tang. he hangs on to his word certain yet unsure, afraid he doesn’t sound pure. he talks and then is at a lose for words. afraid the air, his trust, the peace might curd i say wisdom that not originally my own. but reconfigured, that in a way i recognized and figured out on my own. there will be no stone, only honesty and no stoning. honing on my past as a form of nostalgia, making use of those years of moan and morn. laced with advice i say there’s no scorn in being torn. there advice he has had a taste, and surprisingly he wants more. so slowly my fingers i tap, afraid that this fragile spell might snap. i look at my clock and think to myself vaguely there’s go the nap, i had wished upon, as the red numbers burn into my eyes like the sun. but then i go back to him the one. my feet slide on the carpet back and forth, reinforcing a fort, as a praise and a injured heartfelt thank you is said. i can only pray you mend, and perhaps i have taken it upon me to tend, a responsibility Allah has lent on a short, pricey rent. any goodness, any advice is heaven sent.
and then i look back to my screen, at it would seem that my peer adviser went up and fled to his stead, without a parting as if there was no starting. and i empty my head and heart of care with a resigned ’so what?’ which replies with: ’so there’. retreating back into my lair of homework, sleepless nights, aches until my streaght can be put to balm, applied with a sweet gentle song.
it lags my tongue. there i am done.

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