He was the pilgrim

orphaned against her religion!

He let go

but like most love struck people

he could go no further

then the front gate

-steel

iron

platted hell

to keep

the riffraff out-

She worshiped

moonlight

like a cat

swallowing the night sky whole

(she was always such a show off

when no one was looking!)

And him,

well

what can I say

his nerves were full of ashes

in

and out of love

he crashes

against her

billowing;

he has such a way about him

I can't help starring

wishing

that he would look at me that way.

He drove a car made of lust

and tattooed

her face

tiny

red

ink

across his lip

inside

to keep

her close

always.

She laughed

but was impressed just the same.

They made love in the garden

ghosts

silent

beneath

the scream.

He told her secrets;

she secretly lied.

I asked her why

but she couldn't tell-

it was something in the water

or maybe the wine

it whispered

summer

heat against the brow.

He shuffled his feet when he walked

but she always wondered why he never talked

about

exactly what

they

were

anyway.

Love is such a dirty little word,

I don't think either of them ever said it,

out loud that is.

It was deep blue nights back then

like oceans

of years

opening up

before the road

that you can never stop driving on.

They hummed

Shakespearian

sonnets

while they slept

(I was aware

I know that for sure.)

I wanted to sing their song with them

I wanted to be a part of summer

and not just sizzling

within it.

They were always so good together!

He was the pilgrim

orphaned against her religion,

but I think

like me he didn't believe in anything anyway.