An unfinished poem lies in the lines of his palm; earthy and ambiguous it frequently invokes the muse which like the river is otherwise brimming, emerald blue rippling, indomitable with a hope to induce— there is no denying it, his essence is that of wheat, of fields laden with eternity in each turn of the breeze. The sweet, rich brown a breathless possibility that he might be “he,” is heavenly. But oh! Blackness encircles like the arms of a cypress tree,
just as dark days are inevitable, they are necessary—
mournful pebbles pry and I clutch my heart, he’s the song I sing when everything seems to be falling apart. Subtly pink, his lips put the sunrise to shame, without touching he beckons the soul and moves in as silently as a blown kiss; and I lie here envisioning him under a different sky during the early hours of night—
at a point where edges are blurred by infinite longing, I inveigle sleep and sigh; “for wheat is wheat.”
An encore. Could anything be more delicious than the sky pale blue smudged grey? The swirl of him in my mouth, coffee lips with an intention to honor with pretty torments— we are closer than physical, a bumbershoot forgotten while sauntering in the rain.
Whatever happens, happens once. It’s ephemeral like passing mist. Somewhat like the taste of dark chocolate, the night less than nocturnal; life is brutal that way, the moments that touch us are also those we can never hold onto for long.
I write them down every chance I get. The exquisite blend of hot and cold; that is life. When I found him, I learned things I never knew about myself. How I long to kiss his lips, shapely as a rosebud, sometimes I still my thoughts in hopes of hearing his heartbeat. We are many miles apart at the moment. We will remember once when it is over, said and
done – it was a time and there was never enough of it.
By day the café is the colour of bergamot orange. I hold on to knowledge that it’s disposition alone that determines affinity.
Amaranth red, the morning parts her lips stretching ever outwards into the rich blue— always in a hurry there are two kinds of people in the world, us and everybody else For the love of earl grey, I poke my head out of the covers wheatish skin disregarding the warmth of the sun and instead typing bold words with long, slender fingers on the iPhone screen
Like dark petals, exhaustion falls on the laminated floor I forgot that people tag along only when it’s related to their own means of pleasure— the internet has spoiled conversation no longer across the table, maintaining eye contact their actions send me deep in thought
Finally the weather matches my mood, rain soaked the ground holds more than it can possibly endure black currant jam, love poems and an adamant pen I feel as though he is thumbing through my mind— viridian desire that inspires my most wanton poetry, I could drink an ocean of him
and still be thirsty, I am on the edge of something I cannot describe always in a hurry, there are two kinds of people in the world us and everybody else
Red lipped, I wait like spring-tide as salt grass and anemone blossom in cycles set up by the moon; listen closely I am explaining a few things— holier than holy is touch, every point of contact feels as though water on fire it’s simple and yet indescribable; a rush of energy that speaks volumes in comparison to words. You ask me what significance there is to Poetry? I’ll enlighten you, but briefly! A luminous vessel expanded in the secrecy of dark earth, an onion, its depth and meaning cannot be unraveled petal by petal without a ransom of tears. I am twilight choosing to plant a handful of seeds until the sun goes down— I know not jealousy nor do I care for spite, my sky opens each day like a peach cut in half; only momentarily, yet too long. Does the wind know of patterns formed and left behind? Imagine her joy when she sees ripples near the lakeside, there are things that the blood needs to hear— such is my state, who knows what I might write under the heady influence of August— my eyes heavy lidded with sleep do not close over his image without a sigh; I am explaining a few things.
With a fist full of hair; I drink in the silent storm enveloping me— so subtle is hint intertwined in words, his self-announcing fragrance, a blend of sandalwood and cedar, lingers like decadent seed
sowed in the garden of my mind— I am undone.