Don’t You Realize
Don’t you realize
that I need you,
not to breathe,
not to step
on the soil
and stare dumbly
at the day, but
to inhale largely,
to fill my lungs
with the edge of alive,
to feel the running
of cells in the blood,
for my eyes to explode
with wonder and hunger,
for the fire in me to burn.
I need to stretch to you,
to extend my hands
and my soul, to step
out of the static
shell-ness of my mind,
to leap into the morning
with anticipation,
throw open the windows
and listen to the songs
I wouldn’t hear without you
or the volume would be
turned down and I’d muffle
through the hours.
When I tell you I need you,
like a fire needs logs or
a furnace needs fuel or
my mind needs words,
I’m not just talking,
I’m sputtering on
two cylinders waiting for
your sparks to ignite me.
© Zen Oleary
June 22, 2004
