We Watched A Falling Star

 
 I was so tender-hearted 

when I loved you,

years ago in a Northern hamlet

by a glacial lake.
My hopes for love 

were still intact then

noble and sacred edifices

constructed from an ancient narrative;

grand yet vulnerable 

like the Buddhist statues at Bamiyan

before they were destroyed.
We watched 

that star fall together,

one night when we sat

in thoughtful companionship by the lake edge.

Deer crept stealthily through the pines behind us

and we watched it

swirl across the sky 

like 4th of July fireworks,

then plummet.
Now my heart knows

what can happen

to majestic things.
Though I no longer hope

for you,

I still 

remember

everything.

Lost Love

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I wandered
lost,
in a fantasy
of love,
thick like a forest
with twisted branches and hidden paths,
with fairy dust that illuminated foliage in the morning, like dew.
And the howls of strange monsters that echoed through the land
as dusk fell
into night.
Dream
or nightmare,
this was
my own heart of darkness,
my own Amazon jungle,
with you
as my guide,
native to
this beautiful depravity.

I am lost still
in you.

Hoping to find
my way
to love.

Your Scent

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Sitting next to me,
sharing a mundane moment,
I just barely inhale
your scent,
a subtle whiff
of cherished memory
that tempts me.

Desire uncoils
like a serpent,
wraps itself around my heart
and clenches
tightly,
cutting off my circulation,
almost breaking
the poor wretched thing
into a million
hopeful little pieces.

How can I ever lift this curse?

The curse of wanting you
in every possible way.

The Hope

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shine bright like a diamond

My heart is a diamond,
the hardest known natural material,
enduring and sparkling
with enigmatic beauty.

Cut only by other diamonds,
my heart is cut
by the vicious action of yours
into the latticed crystal of my being,
the pressure and sharpness
of your dark love language
that shatters
me apart.

Even diamonds have a cleavage point.

Hope may appear magnificent
in its grand facade
but beneath that there is a blueness
that permeates its structure.
A red glow
that lingers in a dark room,
revealing its underlying curse.

I am tired
of the pressure
that formed me;
of being mined
for my resources;
of all the blood
that has been spilt.

I just want
to shine.

Like the Falling Snow

One November night

I drove up the steep slope

of the 4th of July Pass;

plowed through sheets of fresh snow,

all starry white, glazed with sparkling frost,

headed towards Coeur D’Alene,

towards home.

 

You were lying next to me,

your breath rising and falling in my ears,

fogging the windshield,

your body slack with sleep.

 

I sank into the heated leather seat of my Jetta,

blared the defroster,

listened to Habib Koite softly crooning,

as my heart stretched

over all of I 90,

expansive and wide and wild as Montana,

clenching and breaking with too much love for you,

knowing that soon

you would leave.

 

Yet that moment was silent

and serene

like the falling snow.

Sunset

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I watched through the frame of my bedroom window

as flaming streaks of pink and peach glittered on the horizon,

then receded

as dusk fell,

leaving thick brushstrokes of blue grey clouds

to fade

into the blur of night.

 

Tears rolled down my cheeks as I watched,

the result of inevitable mourning

that my heart should not indulge.

 

But I am unapologetically alive

and love to vent

my real feelings

sometimes.

 

You always tasted like bitter herbs, sharp and arresting on the tongue.

A shock like plunging into a cold bath on a warm day.

I grew to crave the bitterness,

the rough contrast.

 

You entered my veins like a poison

and changed the pattern

of my blood.

You became a sickness,

that knew no cure.

I was bedridden, addicted, pathological,

helplessly stricken with

love’s curse.

 

Tonight I cry myself to sleep,

a soothing gesture.

In my dreams I know I will see your embattled visages

and their complexly interwoven threads,

turning like a kaleidoscope

through the various stages of my inner landscape,

tumbling, moving, shifting,

like shells do

at the bottom of the ocean.

 

Then morning will come

and paint the sky again.