Wednesday, May 6, 2015

love and other poppycock


Under the soft glow of affection,
The hard edges of the map soften,
Until it is rounded out into a gentle globe,
Which—turning, turning—slips
from my sticky, rational grasp,
eluding me utterly,
slides into the inky endless universe,
peppered by the sunset skies of nebulae,
birthing new stars
out of the dark, ambivalent clouds.

My heart leaps and yearns,
in that too-familiar, lovesick way.
Here we go again:
It skips a beat when you walk through the door,
It holds its breath when it hears your footstep in the hall,
It is crushed when the door swings open and it is a different face.
It melts when you smile,
It laughs when you laugh,
It logs each word you address to me
Into an intricate filing system,
Dedicated just to you,
with labels and sub-labels,
an endless archive of analytical material
you have generated, that I can
decipher on some later date.

It longs to reach out and touch you,
It thirsts to break into all the
mysterious fortresses where
 you withhold yourself.
It hopes for knowledge
you have forgotten;
It peers into your past and
yearns for details it can never earn:

What your voice was like when you were four
What made your eyes sparkle when you were twenty
What inside jokes you had with your brother when you were seven
What you thought of the world before you had seen any of it.
If you have longed to travel since you were ten
If you have ever walked to the beach at night
and felt lovingly alone,
happily desolate,
with all the stars
If you have ever seen the sun rise over Rome and cried
If you have ever broken your arm playing tag with the neighbor kids
If you have spent a summer afternoon climbing a tree, because rough earth is too unkind.
Why you love the way the music breaks your heart
Why you wander without questioning each step you take
Why your mother holds you so closely in her arms
Why your friends are all afraid of you
Why your face is etched with lines that hint at stories winding all over your soul.

I am drunk and you are sober;
I am young and you are older;
But, just as the winter and the
Summer mingle in an eternal season
Known as spring,
Our springtime, like this city’s, might be now;
Your snow with my sweet sunshine would endow
The world with an amorous glaze:
A frosty and eternal noon,
If we find our way to there,
We,
intoxicated by the mountains
And the valleys of these dreams,
can pretend
Our youthful snows
And over-ripened tulips have no end.
Our histories will mingle,
in their hazy, happy joint existence
For a dreamed eternity.

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