A tall and proud southern girl with long chestnut hair.
A sadness in her heart melting smile, she can’t not care.
And those blue eyes bright, yet a darkness, coming storm.
That soft drawl, that lilting voice, keeps my hopes warm.
After her shift, we get on my motorbike, head to the hills.
We carry our sorrows there, and our mismatched, clashing wills.
She holds tight through the dark cut only by the single headlight.
The spirits are coming in the falling mist, and their rage will bite.
The cabin nestled in the grove of Oaks, we come to it at 1 AM.
We lay on the bed, and the distance is close, but the hopes slim.
She whispers from Solomon’s Song in my ear, a soft, lilting drawl.
I love her voice, like the girls I grew up with, before my graceless fall.
We make love, in the cool dark, in the restless forest, in the raging quiet.
Her sighs are high and whispered, and the welcome of her touch won’t deny it.
I kiss her with hunger as the end comes, and the owl calls as we collapse.
The eyes of Satan and Aliens on us, in our private moments, they do not lapse.
In the cold we wake, still a tangle of flesh and limbs, and now we shiver.
Naked, I start a fire in the wood stove, hoping her God is indeed a forgiver.
The dim orange light of the flames cast a demon’s shadow play on the living room.
I crawl back under the covers and into her arms, a sanctuary in this bitter gloom.
She strokes my hair, makes curls through her fingers, trying to remake me.
Sometimes angels can’t reconcile in heaven, sometimes one is still an enemy.
She whispers to me, that it might be a new beginning in this lonely place
“We see now through a glass darkly, but soon we will see each other face to face.”