I don’t know if she likes the morning, nor if I do either.
But today’s a clear peach and pastel blue.
It seems the toll of work and divorce have hollowed this Lucian girl.
Our Blue Mountain blend yet to be had.
She has a home, sons and plans to renovate.
In the morning she’s ripped from the sanctuary of the night’s implausible ether
Again she all anew performs perfunctory morning routine. Awoken defeated.
Is it so that once Damage is done it can never be un-felt, I hear a bell peel which may never un-toll, its tinnitus latching to the day
A social Construction’s a something that doesn’t exist, in nature, a bastardisation of the natural, a fire to the ways before and all anew, a plain to see
Is to Forgive to un-see? To release, the feculence flung, to apologise and tolerate, to sponge and expunge
and Repression’s the submission of reality to our mind’s nether, nevermind; as if out of sight it ceases to be; as when I look at you I cease to see me.
I know at times I take on your faults. I believe. I change. I see you don’t.
I sip your poison. It doesn’t kill me, not yet.
We’re an infinity of caramel limbs and cream cotton sheets.
Curtains curtailing hail and sleet
the world knocking at the window of our whispered softness.
The fan heaters on, you said you were cold naked.
Perhaps we’ll have pancakes for brunch,
Times moved on since you last entered my arms.
When you return I’ll make you chai tea, the one
your hands taught mine.
It’s been while since we’ve spoke,
I wonder… because if stigmatised truth or dearth of substance.
I feel it’s the subject, it turned an obscure ombre.
A minds regard of the quiet clandestine workings of a wandering eye.
And a relative conscious.
I read love poems of devotions and pure affection. They too like the gloss movies, a reality away from the compromises and warmth of daily love.
In fiction it vanquishes all, but I see it beaten by jealousy, pettiness and self pity.
A sacred pantomime we all dance to, I’ve found mine but still I wonder.
Not the unattainable picture of perfection
unavailable to those but printed in glossed fiction.
You’ve a face of diamonds and petals,
but a soul more disarming.
A bloomed rose of the ashen earth,
perfect in your humble honesty.
The air is voilent today,
and I reflect on the too long it’s been
since I’ve written to you;
about how my fingers trace the subtle valleys of your back.
How my eyes bat away your tangling tresses
as I whisper kisses behind your ear.
Since I’ve used far too many words to deliver a message I tell you daily.
But my live performance is never as eloquent as my literary self.
My three word admission my gun, bullet, my entire arsenal.
I worry if it is enough. Perhaps…
To offer a humble love in its raw form.
But if you wished
I’d gather the words of love from all languages,
to uniquely submit to you each day
my admission,
My Love.
Isn’t that all of it,
to reach up to the sun
with fists filled with golden sand,
the hot grains fleeing through the cracked clasp,
and for the sun’s shine to be
silvered by the passing
moods of the earth.
J.C. FitzDerick 