Grace there used to be in the mourning
Banded arms, veil-shrouded tears
Private yet publicly seen scenes
Black cars with black windows
To hold the bleakness inside
So that it doesn’t leak out and get on passers-by
Why did it have to come the year she understood
there is no afterlife This is life, get after it
One per customer, one size fits most
Unless you have the imagination for two
Which proves good, since she is one now.
Why did he write for forever preserved in words, her manna
His inked fingerprints staining the paper “I hope this is your best year yet”
In the year that all colors turned to ash, heart turned into
Endless forms, mailings, courtrooms
The vagaries of dead life
Why did people say ‘he’s watching over you’ like
That is comforting – oh, to comfort them, that’s right
Because love can barely bear to watch the loved
Suffer, fall apart, spin out of control, lay staring at the ceiling
Mumbling like a mad person alone in the dark
If I were a melody in your mind, how would you write me?
In Adagio perhaps, as in the best way to approach.
Would you linger over Staccato, to match your heartbeat in my presence?
And although some may prefer Delicato,
It seems best paired with Appassionato, as two hearts enfold into one.
With tempo written, how would then you elicit my sound?
Gentle finger strokes upon ivory, scaling the highs and lows
Lovingly drawing a bow long and slow across heartstrings, echoing
Would you form the strong embouchure required of the reeds and brass
Or be the pounding, driving force holding together the pace found in the percussion line.
Keep me near you, like a well-worn, revisited book
That favored one you caress the pages of before
Succumbing to slumber, the thoughts that frame your dreams.
Sleep, letting the essence of me float through your resting mind
Rummaging gently through your unguarded nooks and crannies
Causing your lips to curve in a soft, sleepy smile
Awaken, with thoughts of me scattering
Like startled sheep on a hillock
Giving you pause before throwing your legs over the bedside
Feel, as you face the mirror to shave, me
Grazing my fingertips against the stubble and pulse
Halting your breath a bit before you continue the ritual
Let me inhabit you, be the whistle on your lips
The niggling song you can’t put out of your mind
That accompanies you throughout the day with a smile
I can be with you, while without you
Like the river that ducks underground
Resurfacing miles later, present, but unseen
Sustaining, always flowing, moving through you via my inhabitation of your heart.
Inspiration: While working on my recent other post ‘Stone Cold?’, I thought about what want feels like for me. How it feels when someone inhabits my thoughts. How I want to be wanted by another, and so I dressed this other with the way it feels for me to want, how the wanted flows through my life when it is going on. It is gentle, but steadfast. It makes me smile at odd times during the day. But can one have that expectation of another, that they will want in like manner? Inhabitation is by invite, differing from possession.
I also realized that while I’m being pragmatic over there on my other blog, the romantic part of me has to get out somewhere, which is, ahem, apparently here. We all have more than one side, and dissonance comes when they wrestle for primacy.
Water is something that nurtures and supports life, and my mental imagery is that for what I consider loving – it is both sustaining, and sustainable. However, excessive consumption of water can make it run dry. Do you think that is true also, of loving?
(and…apologies for the birdsong that accompanies the reading. I thought of re-recording, but, I often write against the backdrop of nature, and what bird is not drawn to water?)