Clarifications

There is a woman somewhere that I love
(Right now I think she's upstairs in the shower);
If I am Noah, she must be the dove
Flying on back to me by her own power
(The olive branch she bears is simply her,
The only thing I've searched for all this while).
Her voice is hardly music, but entrances
(She'd laugh at me if I admitted this);
There's subtle beauty in her angry glances
(At least the kind that stop with just a kiss).
I love to look at her and sometimes stare
(She grumbles at me when she catches me);
I cannot help but wish that she were there
Whenever I'm in different company
(Which is not often, as I much prefer).
In short, there is a woman. I love her.

Therapeutic

There are some feelings that I cannot say,
But in the moment maybe I can write.
They're mostly bad. They hurt. But in a way
That's what makes their writing seem so right.
They're distant on the page, no part of me
Although I know of course I wrote them there;
That makes it possible for me to see
Their truth, but lack the full weight of my care.
A death, a sorrow, a departure seem
More manageable down there on the page;
Not half-forgotten like the morning's dream,
But neither full of all-remembered rage
And tears. So I must set my sorrows here
That I may take them back without my fear.