The Forbidden Fruit
My heart flips when I think of your name.
It’s because it’s forbidden that I’m hungry for it to sit on my tongue,
spill out of my mouth.
Your name is like magic.
Like holding the sun in your hands.
Like stars in space.
Like supernovas exploding in vacuums of gravity.
Like unicorns that don’t exist.
Your name exists and it doesn’t.
It’s Schroeder’s name,
both alive and dead.
Sparks and wet logs.
Fire and sand.
Blood and mosquitos.
It has the power to electrify the city of my heart
and burn down the forest fire of my brain.
It has the power to withhold me from being dumb
and I’m dumb a lot.
I love your name because it is forbidden to me.
I care about you because you are forbidden to be.
I ask questions because you are forbidden to be.
I tell you to sleep because you are forbidden to be.
Kept under lock and key.
I’ve always loved mysteries
and you’re one I want to piece together whole.
Make constellations out of you.
Tell your story to the entire world
because I care about you
and I care about you
because you are forbidden to be.
I care about you because
you are the stars in my universe
that guide me during dark nights
when no one else is there
except my thoughts.
You are there,
I admire you for that.
Your name may be forbidden
but it’ll echo inside the chambers of my heart
for as long as I shall live:
Will you do the same with mine?