Just a private conversation between the night crawlers…and, I.
As the sun wakes its weary head…mirrored reflections on mistakes made.
Holes bored into my soul.
Curled in upon itself…divots, to which I dare no enemy tread.
Modern day judgment comes often.
Frequently it is swift.
Always it is free.
I could tap love on her slender, shoulder.
But I appreciate that she not know such demons exist.
It is a love affair with words…
Hers, mine, Hers.
Infinitely, I am struck by someone’s written way.
Much more so, than their physical sway.
How sensuality can bloom in a sentence.
Wet more wondrous…
not in what is done.
But in what she may say.
Inevitable when the reading is set down…and, left to stimulate for another day.
From penned infancy to disorganized adulthood
I have tried to put into words dribble and hymn.
And, all the many, many, skeletons of wondering that took place.
I tried to put into words
she did for me
when I felt misinformed on my solitary imaging.
My, my, my androgeny.
Her denim coerced all the slayings of the normal sects.
Pastel black or white.
Soon became black and white pastels with retrospect.
This small window of opportunity.
A brisk period of time to dust love off and let it shine.
Vows of devotion…a bit brutish and unkind.
I can only deem my love’s memory as, savory with age.
It may sway through a realm of bold bouts, heart-shaped and reticent.
Yet, land in the middle.
Such as the inside of a prized candy, lasting and consistent.
These are the thick of things.
Not flowered in always or forever.
But tenderness in the here and now.
My love does not linger on slippery slopes of what is to come.
My love does not lay in what was.
My love, an organic rhythm.
A divine comedy.
A divine tragedy.
And, the symphony between.