He came to me out of the dreamy fog, wearing an ornate mask.
Without a word, he put his firm mouth against mine —
then gently coaxed my lips apart with his lips and tongue —
urging me to unfold like a dewy blossom.
I knew he was the lovely articulate man I had met at the store.
He had bemoaned his struggle to quit smoking.
His hair was combed back from his fine face.
This dream was a baksheesh of hope for an abandoned woman.
What to do?
I don’t know, but this I surely comprehend:
I cannot bear to look at the moon or stars except when I am with you.
To look at your photos gives me a twist of joy and pain,
except knowing you would be mine.
To study anything to do with your country
brings a lump to my throat.
Arranged marriages of any nation bode me ill.
I cannot bear images of young men with brides
or men holding babies or children.
I’m like a specter gazing at what she can never have
with you. I die.
I wish you to prosper.
How could I hope to be your happiness
in place of all your dreams?
I love you enough to sacrifice all.
I simply do not know what the “all” should be.
Surely not you.
how many congratulations
how many condolences would this entail —
my heart’s breath.
spark visions of sparklers in childhood Julys.
When time to light them came in the twilight
after an eternally sunny day,
I felt like a fairy holding a potent wizard wand.
There were never enough sparklers
for my brother and me
on those firefly lit nights.
Like not enough eggnog,
never enough chocolate covered cherries
When I became a responsible adult,
I drank a quart of eggnog and
ate a pound of chocolate cherries
in one sitting.
That night I didn’t sleep
because of the cannonball in my stomach.
I was cured.
I love being satiated.
Like with you.
I cannot get enough of you,
my silken magic carpet navigator.
There is not a cure exists.
Today I marched for the innocents,
victims of the haters of the dissimilar desperate.
Where your feet go, tells who you are every day.
One can grow weary on feet of clay —
remnants of our greatness eroding away.
It is not of ability, but of will.
Love is the footsore person’s cure.
Why are we so obsessed by love?
Many poems concern qualities of love:
NEW LOVE, an epiphany of seeing life
in a way filled with novelty and bliss
for 2 weeks.
FOREVER LOVE, cemented and guaranteed to
last forever and make you happy
for 2 weeks.
LOST LOVE, filled with the hopelessness,
the angst of never finding another love so grand.
Well, maybe I will try loving again
in 2 weeks.
There is infinity to analyze concerning love.
But I suppose I must close this prose.
My eye delights in your panorama with relish.
You are my perfumed paradise destination.
My love for you spans to our rock-pounding horizon.
The world beside you is my eye candy dish.
My love is given for your joy. I am not selfish.
My love is poured for your delight – not for dull procreation.
The glory of our far reaching passion is for celebration.
Of all the wide open women, choose me to be your purple fragrant fetish.
I can’t help it.
I look in a mirror;
I see you:
My hands, hennaed by you with our initials and wit.
My eyes remember you kissing the lids with true
desire. My body’s stately asymmetry
You call unique perfection.
I look in a mirror at you
cradling your beloved
Today when I look into the mirror
I see ghosts.
Such fascination with the solitary path of shadows ahead.
Light, light years behind.
How did my Karma spawn such bereft imagination?
Perhaps opening my paper umbrella will bring consolation.
Written for @Realistic Poetry in response to this picture prompt.
I can appreciate Saint Paul’s definition:
Love is courteous;
Does not insist on its own way;
Love hopes all things;
Endures all things….
But his writing has no accounting
For the longing that makes me
Want to climb on your lap
And weep in ecstasy against your neck.
Just today I wish you had never been so attentive
All those years
With your romance and music.
Then on Christmas Day, 2017,
Your subtle withdrawal began.
I will never know why.
But it has left my soul and libido
More parched than before we met.