09/2025 (c)
On paper the lovers would likely have not felt the
attraction
Their uniqueness seen more as disparity than as harmony.
One of them is a tempest. An updraft. A whoosh.
Another is a soft rose. A square of velvet.
There is water. Sometimes stagnant but usually gurgling
and slurping.
There is fire and there is stone, but who is to say which
one holds what cards?
What split-off personalities do I need to re-unite? Just
how much love
may I give myself?
I recall the obsessions, the perfect fit of two hands
touching
as though touch were a new thing. Turning his off-hand remark
into a koan, into a worry stone to rub away into an
iridescent hue.
I recall the ideal weather, the luminescent being whose
flaws
didn’t require forgiveness. Even fault lines were
perfect.
Part of my soul is a tamed bird. Part is a wagon wheel.
Part prefers solitude. The other is already looking for a
way out.
