The Winter
You may find ease in your silence but I find peace when I inscribe these pieces for you. When my heart, fosters an arched sun, a pen half curved, an eye half drunk, I carve you letters. Day one, I write you of my love; day two, I write you of my love; day three, I erase them all. This is life. Words are not blades but to heal, not to hurt, but to swoon with faith. To me writing to you is where petunias on the pillows dance their printed petals.
At fifteen, a mystic told me never to journey where the ocean pulses power into the ringed cliffs. I would rather live with the chance of seeing you than risk death along the way. Off the wallpapers, birds fly south for the winter, but I conclude my epic of love here in the north without you.
Why did you ask if you will ever lose me? Why did you say you will never leave? What was it that you wanted me to say or to have written to you so that you would not disappear again? I may never know the answers but I know one thing: amidst the misty bales of memory, descended from the fields of devotion, I am a woman to you made of best-to be forgotten-love.
At fifteen, a mystic told me never to journey where the ocean pulses power into the ringed cliffs. I would rather live with the chance of seeing you than risk death along the way. Off the wallpapers, birds fly south for the winter, but I conclude my epic of love here in the north without you.
Why did you ask if you will ever lose me? Why did you say you will never leave? What was it that you wanted me to say or to have written to you so that you would not disappear again? I may never know the answers but I know one thing: amidst the misty bales of memory, descended from the fields of devotion, I am a woman to you made of best-to be forgotten-love.
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