'A Burnt Thesaurus' a poem by Scott Spethman

I’ve been raised by your peripheral glances
Scanning over our distinct body posture
I’m saying “I miss you” with a hand on my forehead
You’re yelling, but I can’t read with my eyes blurred

A figure of your persona sits on the dashboard
You fiddle around with it while I look on
Lusting to be between your fingers
I’ll never be your eight legged lover

I wish I could speak to you in voice and paint
But not everyone is as talented
Singing from a mountain range
Producing colors I never dreamed of

In the back of my mind I ponder
If I were to guess, I would have to suspect it to be true
That every word I ever wrote brought me back to you
Each syllable a note, every rhyme a stroke