We
fly in fragments, to conjure joy, as heavy as age. I loved
her—to
find her, to ask submission. We parted August, to
fracture
December, a five month love. I miss it like sugar,
a
boiling sky, pushing to write. So winsome, and jarring
tears,
an architect of love. Leave me atwitter, to cull a passage,
and
remain an ideal. We counted winds, to tiptoe zephyrs,
to
sculpt a segment. Whisper softly, “Ashes to a windowpane,”
an
undercurrent of wanting. Such was closure, a linchpin
sealed,
a subtle panacea. I give it ‘lease, to tilt this love, to
race
forward. Life is beauty, a seam of woes, and often ugly.
So
more a mantra, a woman statuesque,
the words of
pregnancy.
It was so unfastened, a sky to flip, to irrigate a soul.
We
ski and glide, to enfold love, to pluck pinions. It’s ever
poetic,
a silent symphony, weeping for a stranger. I saw her—
to
crave her, ever an undulation: to feel for yokes, fully
enthralled,
a vault of angst. We open, for printed souls, to
live
a fairytale. So radiant, courted in darkness, to reap for
havoc;
and such a keepsake, whelmed in rain, ever to cheerlead.
