Fire in the desert with intermediary
ocean dips happened one day
in my summer abode.
Opposing circumstances fell with
tectonic force in this brief section
of life, she was everything to me
as I to her and uncharted emotions
found my definition of perfection.
But the same worldly force that dropped
us in
this realm of unambiguous crazy passion love,
in a matter of a few full shadow clocks had our
grasp sliced and our reach shortened even faster.
A debilitating state in pure
satisfaction longed for forever more.
No raven quoth for us.
The smell of a similar
moment was never tasted.
And so I write this laying next to the woman who
gave this to me 6 months earlier, wanting from her
that moment again, the field of
infinite, outstretched strings of fate crossing with
the taste they manifested before that point left its scar with
ever-growing, unforgotten tissue
that stings every time I look in her eyes,
causing my string to break,
almost.
Surely,
other marks from lacerations through
time must exist in the desert, because
continental plates still shift,
on occasion.
This article appears in Mar 18-24, 2009.