A breeze across hot asphalt,
unblinking eyes and first love;
every kiss was full of never-before,
made of the purest glass
and she believed as well as I
that it would always be perfect.
She was the storm's blue eye,
and her rain seeped into the pavement.
She had a boy's name
and she was beautiful—
because or in spite
is something I still debate
when I ponder the past
and consider the future
that will never be:
I fled inland
I called her the brightest star
because her hair was dark like night,
and I longed to sleep beneath her,
fingers and tongues speaking only
to each other,
in a language no one else would understand.
Much was lost in translation
and in time.
It was a waltz between two young souls,
up late to see the world become silent
and revel in it.
We took slow, tender steps
in an empty ballroom where no one else watched;
the beauty of a dance is that it must end
as the music does—
this one was a happy cadence.
and she chased me as far as she could,
over the mountains and into my dark places—
places no one but her has ever been strong
enough to go;
for this I adored her,
Her soul was made into poison
because of a sin—
it was not her doing, but still
she took the burden upon herself
and I nearly became part of the load.
There is still a part of me that is stuck,
unable to return from the event horizon
that is where she resides;
I wonder what kind of God lives there,
where there is nothing.
but even the wildest storms lose their wind
when they venture away from the sea.
There was an accidental kiss on the cheek
after one too many drinks.
I was hung over in the morning;
she had gone,
and all that remained of her
was a long, red stain
on my favorite shirt.
I donned a black mask
and became a devilishly handsome stranger
to them and to myself—
my skillful hands unlocked things
that their owners would have preferred to remain shut.
Sometimes when it rains,
I think it might be her
coming back again.
She kept me warm when I slept at night,
when storms and darkness threatened;
I ran back to her when I was drunk
and when I could not face the world;
she is what I would find myself wrapped up in
when I wake up in the morning,
but I have the bad habit of kicking off layers
when my bed becomes too warm.
These bumpy tracks
we ran on, she and I—
we spoke with words we didn't write
and somehow it means
A sound here,
a guitar there; changes
in chords, in rhythm.
There's a sweetness
in a gift that you can have
but not possess,
like a song or a moment.
I see us dancing
on the jewel case—
an erase-proof memory
in case my favorite CD
ever gets scratched.
Her cheeks were like roses
in color, and I felt sun
light upon my skin.
I knew I was in on a secret,
one deeply hidden
in a single word
in a single book
in a single room.
She was there with me,
on a great adventure
half a world away—
the land of the Viking, Éire,
paese del poeta, Aotearoa.
They say Romeo's bane,
and his salvation,
were of flowers—
one day I will bloom too.
She was made of heavy stone,
burnt—or garnished—by flames past and present.
I saw histories on the seldom-glanced brick,
and the story of all fire: how it blazes
until it burns all, or it suffocates—
and even then it smolders.
I told her she was pretty
because she would not believe beautiful—
not even if it came from my lips,
not even if my tongues licked it onto her
and seared all the char away.
Instead there was the glide and the tilt—
like a small wisp of paper
before it falls in the flame,
and its story is lost.
The slow churning of seasons brings new storms,
with young waves hungry for the battered shore—
through a brine-riddled window
I see the raindrops rocket toward me,
winds wailing as they slam against my failing walls
like mad beasts—like wild creatures.
Like all old men I hear in their howls
a reminder of storms long past, and wonder
how a boy could have smiled so wide
after hours in the ocean rain.
/jls/ /aeds/ /mec/ /cew/ /aeds/ /bam/ /aeds/ /slb/ /pjg/ /aeds/ /rah/ /cnt/ /imh/ /sbm/ /aeds/