Friday, November 16, 2012



I might have believed 
in a destiny that swelled between us,
a wave so wild, it beckoned,
although I longed for shore.

You etched wingless eagles into my eyes,
wove bitter butterflies into my belly,
stitched sorrow deeply into my soul.

You were far too beautiful
for the ache you accepted too willingly,
the agony you feasted upon with such hunger,
calling it harvest. 

You offered me a taste 
of this harsh liquid,
calling it mead.

By candlelight,
you signed the words "I love you"
because the words were caught in your throat -
you shivered when I kissed you;

I tasted the salt of your sweat and tears,
confused by the savoring
of an exquisite moment made painful
by the tenderness of your touch -
you silently withdrew
and left me moaning your name.

You wounded the heart of me
when you swore to vows
you would never, could never keep.

I shook at your deception,
curling into the small warmth of shadows -
your false light was anguish defined.

I sought the healing sculpture of language,
unwilling to perish from loneliness,
unwilling to die for your sake
when you would not live for mine.