I stew
like meat and prunes
in the soup
of my longing;
taste the green
astringent leaves
of my heartbreak,
that grow
like fennel bulbs
from my chest,
a flourishing bitter.
I soak,
grind you
into acorn flour,
releasing tannins
of memory,
making this palatable —
my love,
my aching loss.
You are flirting with me. Eyes open; eyes closed. Eyes open, eyes closed. There is nothing so agonizingly tempting as the tease of giving and taking away. And now I want you again.
Your eyes open to me again like ancient doors
and I yearn to enter the dark obsidian cavern of your heart.
Light a fire there and cook in my earthenware pots,
feed you my unbridled love,
this hot and tender melancholy that you breathe into me.
Your eyes open to me again like ancient doors
and I yearn to enter the dark obsidian cavern of your heart.
Light a fire there and cook in my earthenware pots,
feed you my unbridled love,
this hot and tender melancholy that you breathe into me.
