Perfumed, his breath writes sonnets on supple skin;
places a kiss or two on the forehead,
is both fiery and tender,
is intellectual foreplay and deep
I float further down its stream.
These sombre lashes are brave enough to delve in;
love him when he is lost,
when he’s dressed in tidal waves,
there is no pretending—
we tend to draw a straight line
knowing well that it won’t be perfect,
and the repeat the same the next day;
such are customs of the world we live in.
And now it’s Spring once again;
I think of crocus and darkening of the southern sky,
observe, the laughter of children
when the wind
blows circles around ash trees—
how is it that the hummingbird knows well
its sheltering bough,
how is it that the moon knows to shape
features every night,
perhaps we will never know, perhaps
we will never know.
It’s getting harder and harder for insatiable soul
sit still and brood like the clouds in July,
his heart is a mosque
that I visit when everything is falling apart—
in its serenity and quietude.
I am quiet because I am filled to the brim,
because I am filled to the brim.
We bloom despite the storms that rage.
Photo credits: Pinterest