i think i have bartered the recherché symmetry of every rice grain that fills the coterie of my many mouths for the untranslated and dangerous to swallow diamonds studded in the word “cafune” - to run your hands through someone’s hair. there had to be a phrase, an archetype, an animal on the cusp of weakness and will that explained the unimpaired repetition of my hands in your hair. beyond this, i have many recitals of you: a bengal tiger in the verdigris reign, the threadwork of rock-keeled belladonna; the choker cut up from tobacco shish; the lustre of the vanishing point on a peregrine falcon’s trail.
you see, i am making you home in every swerve, every curve of my nerve, in my spells and smells; in my rapture and rupture.
look at us; making concessions to each’s handicap; we who have been blindsighted by conditioned routes we have been made to walk. we both have lettered the gravity of loss; we have scalded our soles on enough volcanic ash from the holocausts that voided our pasts. we were flawed into arranging and rearranging these gaps in memory like a tablecloth at a table that always goes unpeopled. the cull of these episodes as if the embrace of million different witherings. how did we fit the flame of this fanatic desire in those veritable lacunae? how did we even conceive that the slum of that grief was dwelling enough?
for 29 years i carried a hoax in place of a heart; every inhale a misstep. how do we remain singular in the face of this impossible yet principal articulation of heartache? this metronome sinking its fingernails into the braille of our bruise.
know this, that every fever breaks at the tip of your name nudging its brief syllable into petaled marble paper of my lips. you will have never moved like this with a woman who is autographed by a grin different than mine. you will not have been tautened to a magnet’s expanding longitude, the extolling diorama of an unarticulated ache; the insinuation of another pleasure that whispers like an aria & weeps like shorelight.
listen, my perfect valentine, my forest-dark octave of a calliope hummingbird, my lotus belled citadel of ancient demons –
let us demand of each other a nearly criminal desire that blacklists us from any and every failing of Eros.
i want to pledge you a trick or two; i want to become adept in the alchemy of opalescent daybreaks that undress the moss-lidded camouflage of the highlands where the mist is a crackle in the thin cellophane of this earth’s hem. i want to brush your brokenness as an archaeologist emptying the chiffonier of greek coins. i want to take apart that studied spire stitch by stitch till we are a mess of a magnificent unfolding sharper than a shark’s jaws; a raven’s eye that tugs at the edge of each connoted rebirth.let us be made of pages and possibilities.
what self hasn’t been a tyranny - a colossus of doubt, a bout of siphon or a drag out. you come haphazard as the quest in my question, the test in the testament and i think love is once again a search for a home.
you have not come to live with me but you have come to live in me.