The Free Warmth of Summer

Here am I / Her forgetfulness
Here am I / Her secrets
Here am I / Her memories
Here am I / Her significance

Here am I. Her fingers fade like slivers of ice in spring water.
Her eyes dissolve to leave deep-cobwebbed caves.
Her heartbeats are only heard by the moon these days.
Her dreams are a river divided by a sharp obtrusive rock.

That social touch goes through her like a stone through a waterfall.
Her voice sticks to my mind like a bird in a tarantula’s claw.
Her heart is the image of a burning, glowing love for a Catholic icon.
Her smile keeps returning to a shelf in a wardrobe used by orators.

How I long for you to love me like a woman from an Arthurian convent.
How I long to be the man I’ve never known.

Here am I. I rise into the sky like a flaming stake.
I melt like an icicle in her white-hot forge.
I become an invisible hair stuck to her twenty-story mirror.
I become a blade of grass uprooted by a hurricane of words.

I become like soft toy in the hardness of her anger.
I remain untouched in the absence of her selfness.
How I long to hear the words that glow on the end of her fingertips like angels.
How I long to lay my head on her lap and sleep.

Here am I. How frightened I am at not achieving the closeness I’ve fought so hard for.
How hard it is for her individualism to communicate, I can never break her self-image out from her hourglass.

Her naked feet, seen in the evening between the firing squad and the full moon that paces in and out of rooms.
She is talking to a small stick man who flies around her head.
What is love if love is not the love I thought it was?
Or is the love that I thought was love an instant thing between other people?

Here am I. There is the unattainable in her head like an evergreen forest.
There are her arms linked to her heart and her heart to no one at the moment.

Here am I. With an abandoned nest for a heart
Where the eggs of the depression bird become the liquid and chromosome of abortion.

In the music of life, sculptured in theory and long term plans and existing as shadows in the mind.
And with my face, puffed up by the endless pain of a slum vertebra and a coal-mined larynx.

1999

Author: blackbird212012

I am interested in multimedia work: songwriting, art, and creative writing. I have been involved also in theatre and music performances.

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