I had stopped smoking, but being around you again,
and the past and all it’s illness and missed opportunities,
I smoking like I used, like a freight train, one after another.
No beer or booze or even wine though, now. Just pots and pots
of piping hot black coffee, as we talk about The Hellhoud hunting us,
and The Demons that we cannot dislodge for our hearts.
And we talk of hope, some mad desperate push to win the day,
for the whole world not to burn in greed and arrogance, that love
might win it all in a lucky spin, like we always hoped it would in our youth.
We find a hipster radio station, from the state college 50 miles away from here,
that might as well be the moon, so far from this dying town, closed storefronts,
too many empty houses, and no dreams left to kindle bonfires beneath the stars.
It’s a love song, lovelorn and despairing, and it’s one you loved in our youth,
some once hot shit band past it’s prime and any popularity, just a footnote,
just that one song loved, like that one good story I have that I always tell strangers.
And like in our youth, in that one perfect night, the time you gifted me with my one good story,
we slow dance, and softly turn on bare feet on dirty floorboards, your head on my shoulder,
my face buried in you dark hair, full of the scent of strawberry shampoo, smell of hope, innocence.
And then, like before, we make love.
We are shivering under the covers, and in each others arms. It’s the end of September, and the cold
is coming, and the stars grow brighter but the sun grows dimmer, and all our dreams our dormant
until spring comes again, and we make believe they’ll come true.
I kiss you softly. I kiss your lips. I kiss your brow. You giggle when I kiss the tip of your nose.
Our breath is ashes and the sweetest bones in the galaxy. Like a dragon I feed on your ashes.
Like a dragon, and therefore your champion, Queen of the Moon, I slay every knight errand on principle.
The cold is coming. The sky is clear in the coming bitterness. Will you let me stay this time.
Will you tell me to go, like every time before, from graduation, to that Perfect Night, to the Breakdown.
I rather fight demons in the snow by your side, then be alone again, in Miami’s so called paradise.
And then, as morning breaks, we make love again.
And then, we finally sleep.
Her breath was hot and wet,
Harsh with peppermint.
Her hair fell loose, veiled our faces,
As the stars sighed and were spent.
July 6th, but still fireworks explode,
Low rent razzle dazzle in the night.
She is thin, small chested, taut wire,
And a new Athena now in my sight.
This is life wanting to plant seeds of death,
To make and nurture an inevitable loss.
I am a pilgrim of pleasure, devoted to her,
Ignoring the light reflected in her gold cross.
Her hand is sweaty, moist, in my own.
She hums a love song as we walk up stairs.
On her thin, hard bed we quietly make love.
Passions, like angels, are made to be pairs.
And we produced no heir.
Just as well, kingdoms burn
Out all the light of candles.
Our hotel room by the Seine,
Our kingdom to fill with warmth,
The soothing touch of skin,
And the little echoes sex always brings.
Skin touching lets you escape skin
And we became one in spirit, tenderly,
At 1 pm on a rainy Sunday afternoon,
Knowing heaven before our little death.
And no child came after, no innocent
Life started so we could escape gravity.
The means of escape is a damnation,
But the sky did not punish us for flight.
Monday morning, I kiss you goodbye,
Carrying the scars of our escape in
My skin and soul, sweetness burning,
Icarus’s falling back into the sea.
The sun is golden and warm, as we undress out of church clothes.
You back is pale and soft, as you strike a statuesque and awkward pose,
Pulling off your cream stockings, and then sit down on the edge of the bed,
Your coifed black hair now wild and free, all pretense at perfection now fled.
I strip on out of my pants and underwear, and sit beside you, kiss your cheek
And touching your belly. You giggle, and lean into my kisses, no words to speak.
We lay down, man and wife, another altar in a private place, flesh and spirit one.
We make love in the hazy and soft sunlight, in this tenderness, a baser thing undone.
Holding each other close, hearts racing, and sleep coming to seal the afternoon,
Our bodies one flesh, and made new and holy as the world passes on without a swoon.
You turn you face to me, and I kiss your lips, and we smile and laugh, so endless, so clear.
We fall asleep in an embrace, just a temple for us in this bedroom, where all days disappear.
We lay in bed together, naked, the windows open,
a slight breeze to stir the hot, oppresive August air.
She is smiling, running her fingers in my hair, tender.
I’m shaking, excited, scared. She takes my hands in hers.
“There is nothing between us. We are together and one.”
She puts my hands on her small, firm breasts, kisses me.
She pulls me tightly to her, and I lose my breath in the touch.
We make love, softly and carefully, two flesh made one soul.
The sun bright, the wind quiet, the air stiffling, the dream whole.
Afterwards, her head resting on m arm and chest, my head on hers
she sings a song, sacred in it’s brokenness, it sorrow and hope.
My heart still races, her breath still wild and ragged.
We are one, there is nothing here between us, in this hothouse room
and our vulnerablity in the light and in love, in the summer blooms.
I kiss her head, and sing with her, a hymn of the left behind and pure,
a hymn of a more ancient and whispering god, of love for love, for kindness.
flow over bare breasts with nipples
soft and pink as rosebuds.
just the bright golden star casting
glory upon our youth.
from the waist up, silent in the light,
silent in the sweet afternoon.
we make love, and become one and whole,
forgetting in ourselves, finding death.
and for a season they will be desired,
and then be cast aside.
another sweet afternoon passing on,
another day that can be nothing else.
our souls scattered and entwined with
the ancient light.
and warm in each other’s arms, in tender submission,
we fall back to Earth.
Cold November light, watery and thin,
trickling through bedroom windows
as we make love, flesh forgotten, flesh denied.
Holding in the sounds and cries, keeping quiet,
even as we melt like candle wax from the flame
of love and desire, spilling onto the sheets
and the floor, to harden into brand new shapes.
crowns our skin with the gentlest or reprimands,
we listen for the high spirited sounds of morning cartoons,
meaning our daughter is awake, and this must end.
and slowly the flame that melted our skin snuffs out,
and the smoke of it still lingers, in raging, happy hearts.
Souls made new shapes, growing closer around each other.
the sweet cold of the fading year, the light that remembers.
Those sounds of cartoons come, and we leave our reveries,
and dress, and return to the mundane world, the weight of flesh.
let her bleak tresses drop from
the braids and ribbons so formal.
her cold, snowhite back,
draining into the cream sea of the bed.
in this winter room, January solace,
as my fingers tentatively touched her.
naked in the hope of tenderness, warmth,
her let down hair the final surrender.
bury my face in those starless curls,
kiss her neck, feel her shudder and sigh.
and, turning to face me, she softly kisses me,
and then we become one flesh.
The snow falls on in the night,
the winds blows silently in moonlight,
and the sun fights it’s way back to the sky.