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Sunday, April 30, 2006

Conversations

First Loves, Latest Tears

I gently knock,
open your doors of love,
let all roads that lead to you
answer my prayer
for the most blessed of sins,
bring me salvation tonight.

Your reproachful eyes
and shaking fingers pull away,
creasing the top corner
of our unfinished page,
marking a close
to a chapter of our lovemaking,
unused bedsheets become bedshrouds,
locking love away
in a cage of refusal
hanging heavily in the mind.

You ask me:
"Can you forget past loves
and just remember me
?"
I answer with shadowed patience,
"How can I forget
those who made me
?"

Would you rather have found me
with human heart-strings unused
dull with rust, unable to play
the sweetest chords, adjusted by other angels,
that now chime just for you?
However many words I attribute to old stories,
I leave the past to yesterday, every end is the way
to a new beginning made with you,
if you would only read me carefully,
this is what all my words say.

Kisses unconnected still you ask me:
"Why don't you just know me
and see my hand in you
?"
I answer with weary perseverance,
"Shall I live you
or analyse you
?"

I cannot say, take me,
but don't take notice of what made me,
you fell in love with their marks on me,
as the tide can't wash away the hand
of each man that wrote your name in the sand,
why should we let first loves
become our latest tears,
don't leave me half-made, simply
an uncompleted love contract
because all signatures are not your own.

-----

This was revised on May 3 2006.
It's first draft was an individual response to someone.
Read a short explanation here.

______________________________

Nightly Conversations

You wake as the moon wakes
burning white in a sleeping sky,
the night is deaf and dumb
to the kiss of our bellies,
generating a searing heat,
hotter than the world's first summer,
I hold a burning axis of fire
on which the world turns,
like a child wanting its mother,
aching to return home.

My toes introduce themselves,
our tongues talk breathlessly,
my fingers ask yours to dance,
the working sheen of our skins
a wet dancefloor, our feet
slipping and sliding,
surfing on the tips of
creamy-white tides,
I call to you, you answer
our bodies translate.

Read more of my poems >>

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© CC License 2004-14. Unless otherwise stated all poetry, prose and art are the original work of the blog owner.