There are moments I cannot touch…out of fear from being.
Dark, gloved hands, reaching out in leather and lace, pulling me from the sanguine times.
Floors that drop without provocation.
Shifting forest that call loud and severe.
And, yet I find, there is no voice.
Puppets and clowns amassed in bad intent.
This are the times that love and loss have lent.
I miss you when there is nothing more to miss.
I fall in love with you, each illness, each sorrow, again and again.
In the seconds that backtrack from past to present and present to future.
You are what love to be.
You are my friend.
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.