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.
A damp leaf caresses my calf.
I become aware of where I am at.
Standing on the repeating ridge.
Quieting, the winds…
‘do not jump.’
With no recourse…
A fall begins.
Yet, there is not a landing to be found.
There is a vague inhabited attempt to recall the impact.
The inhabitants relay no message from the flight.
Drowned out for the air has been so loud.
So loud that…
In the downpour…
Silence is drowned by the solid ground.
Precipitously, the fog lifts…
And, I am back where I belong.
As if, the thickened air.
The jostled calf.
The grounded connection…
Were there for protection.