Lament

Stay the heart that rages in its cage, furious in its muteness. Desire

is fluid, doing all that water does: simmer and rise to heights,  wash over, pull back, let go, drown. Along

the fringes of a dream, reality waits. I smooth back the blurred edges and stay, stay, stay in the center. Where you are. Somewhere, sometime, I will lose you. But

not yet, Love. Not yet. Understand

this: I did not ask, but was given, and what was given to me, I now hold close. My palm

clutches like it will never let go. As if water can be contained forever by human fingers, as if I could tempt fate into submission. I grasp

you, my cupped hands growing weak at the pull of a hundred tomorrows. Yesterday

I sat beside you and was swept in a tide of sadness. Wave after wave, they came, washing

upon my shores, taking, piece by piece, my resolve to be fixed, as a stone is, as this moment

is not. This moment is seeping through gaps where I thought I was gapless. On the crest of a wave, I break

into shrapnels of soul. I am washed

to your shore. Know this: wherever you are is where I am--impalpable because I will it; content because I have known

what loss is like. I pin loss and clarity together because I can. While

I still can. I teach myself

patience. It is what will stay the heart that rages

in its cage while you are where

you are.

Mornings

I lean on the wooden counter and rest my cheek against my palm. There is accounting to be done--the year is about to end--but I would rather just watch you right now.

You are standing by the doorway, talking to the handyman, discussing woodwork. Long-limbed and golden, you are a god come to life from my favorite myths, as far as I'm concerned. Now you are the mortal you have decided to become, making arrangements for your coffee shop, making sure everything is in order, surveying your turf with your quick eyes, your astute mind taking note of what ever is not in place.

I glance at my little notebook and cringe at the numbers--I decide I would have you do it and giggle as I picture you, your eyebrows furrowing a little as you say, "but Love, I have shown you this so many times--this is how you reconcile the figures." And you will show me again and end up doing it yourself, all the while reprimanding me at my insistence on notebooks and pens. Yes, that is my plan of action, fail-proof and cute. And I can almost be sure you've already done what you're asking me to do--you simply want me to practice my Math. Numbers and I--we dislike each other. Immensely.

I look up and see you walking towards me, smiling. My heart melts, yet again, for the thirteenth time today. How can you be so handsome at 7 in the morning? I decide I will spend the day just looking at you. Or, not.

I return to my notebook and pretend I am writing something down. "How's it going, Love? I saw Mr. B-- outside today and he said the new coffee we're serving is tops."

"Well, it's supposed to be--it's a little more expensive than our usual stuff."

You nod. "That's ok. Expensive can be good." Laughter. "Remember we're closing early today. Need to whip up something nice tonight." That lopsided grin of yours--I could kiss you right about now.

"Yeah, sounds good to me," I, trying to steady my beating heart. I think it's a little crazy, my still having a crush on you. You have cooked dinner every night for me for the past 6 years and my knees still grow weak at your nearness. My books weren't lying when they said some loves last longer than others. But back to work. You distract me so.

You lean over and ask, "any progress, so far?"

I purse my lips. "A little, yeah."

You fish the notebook from my hand. You look at the page I was writing on, frown, and run your thumb along your jaw. "Hmm. A stick figure and lots of doodles. I think you make a charming accountant. Is this supposed to be me?"

I shrug. "Of course that's you, who else can it be? I studied you this morning and decided to paint you."

You shake your head. "Boy, oh boy. I am handsome."

I roll my eyes and snatch the notebook from you. "Stop smirking and go ask that nice little man over there what he needs. He's been looking under his table for the past 5 minutes."

"Yes, Ma'am," you wink at me and walk away. Smiling, I bend over to pick up a scrap of paper that has fallen to the floor, and decide I will go out to buy flowers. Mums, perhaps, and pink Gerbera daisies.

Finger Exercise

Begin with alliteration. For example: flickering firelight, tentative tenderness, shivering shorelines, preempt this predicament, cling to comeuppance, feline feelings, hapless hunger, wanton wanting, cloven clocks.

Begin with: caress as a caveat, primal as prelude, dance, darling, do, climax to the clandestine, fall from fastenings, culminate in crying. Bristle, break, bruise.

Alphabetize: decry, demand, desecrate, desire, desolate, despair, desultory.

Forget assonance--it is imperative that I infer nothing from these impressions of impetuousness. Impossibilities inspire inevitabilities.

Start anew with simile: you are like the word luminous; you and I are like two erstwhile distant lights touching, parting, touching again; my heart, like something--anything--about to burst at the seams; you, as near to me as someone--anyone--in the next room. That room is always locked, like something--anything--marked restricted.

Linger in metaphor: I would like to sink in you, I would like to swirl in you, I would like to drown in you; we were one in a parallel universe--here, we are parallel lines; you gather me in your fist and I submit; help me reach those heights, Love, I am in flight with your wings; you are the word luminous; we clasp and become a single flame.

End the way things always end: pictures that blur, edges that tear, breathlessness, a gaze, a question, a word, a tree.

Look, my Love, I have written you a story.

Unpacking Sydney

In journeys
we are completely at the mercy, not of memory but of the road 
we take, which carries us across moonlit worlds and skins
at the same time that it waylays and alters us within.

- From "Orpheus and Eurydice" by J. Neil C. Garcia

It is time to unpack.

You fumble with the zipper, lift the suitcase's cover, and out come the streets of Sydney: the non-intrusive drone of cars breezing past you as you walk down a busy side street, people's arms lightly grazing yours, a mumbled "sorry" or "excuse me" as men and women rush to work under a benign morning sun, gazing down at you as you make your way to the office, with Jessey walking beside you, talking animatedly about the evening before, the both of you wondering what time Rolly and Bo will arrive and if they will ever arrive before you do, what sort of ice cream Pionna will buy today, or will Vin be frowning before his laptop, preoccupied with a phone call, and what dish Cy will whip up for dinner. You remember telling the girl at the counter, "one latte with three sugars, please, and a Coke for my friend." Geraldine said to try it with two, instead, because any more packs won't make a difference. You remember saying, "but I like my coffee sweet," when Phil expressed some barely concealed surprise at how much sugar you put in your coffee. Craig, marching in, turns the lights on and says, "good morning, everyone!"

You pause and smile. Ah, Sydney mornings.

Will you ever make progress with your task, with all these memories coming at you like sudden bursts of sunshine?

You resume, taking out a trip to the beach. And another, and yet one more. You run your hands over memories of sun, magnificent blue, shouts of glee, murmurs of delight, the sound of camera shutters, butter pecan and banana ice cream, people milling, strewn across wide expanses of sand, pink and green cocktails. A pack of beers, warm coffee. You remember the feel of the sand, warm against your toes as you sit on a smooth, grey stone and watch the waves crash against boulders, and you bottle up the beautiful sound that they make, the wondrous sight that it is. You remember a cold wind blowing patiently to and fro, and you shiver a little at the memory of shivering, sway a little at the memory of being swayed by the gusts, warm up a little when you remember the long walk to the other side of the beach and all the other memories that come with it: friendly chatter, harmless banter, exclamations of wonder at how all these will be but memories later, laughter over blackbirds, clumsy attempts at transforming into poetry the fugitive sand that has found its way into thighs and--

You laugh and laugh some more. You are lucky to have been with the best companions you could ever have had. You sigh and wonder how unpacking could be so difficult.

You shut the suitcase and place it back in a corner. The unpacking will have to be done another time, when you are farther removed from all these memories, and less inclined to zone out.

You daydream about the beach, instead.

Mornings

We open at six o'clock.

You are always up hours before, and you always have to pull--carry--me out of bed and I, still warm from your kisses, would groan and mutter, "you have dragged me out of a delicious dream." I often dream. Of water and trees, sunlight and moonshine, you.

You smile that wonderful smile of yours, your smile that still renders my insides weak, still bewitching after all these years. I smile sleepily back and start to fold back into the sheets, if not for your tender admonition of "wake up, Love. Wake up."

Ah, yes, the cafe. The customers will soon trickle in. Breakfast will have to wait.

We are tucked in a street corner, beside a bake shop whose smells of warm bread waft into our open doors. Our unspoken partnership has invited more patrons into this spot than we had cared to expect, the only part of the city that has cobbled streets. 

I had been particular about cobbled streets, as much as I had been about the orange gabled roof you had asked the builders to so carefully put into place. I gaze happily at it as you earnestly pull up the red and white awnings, and I look at you, grateful for indulging my wish for an old English look. You look at me and say, "time to work, Love," and I roll my eyes, mumble a "yes, Boss," and laugh. You tousle my hair and kiss me on the cheek. A neighbor waves hello, and we wave back. 

You scoop me up into your arms and walk into the cafe. I bury my face in your neck, thinking of our fig tree.

Daphne, Descending

Descending from your flight to madness, still shaky from the breathlessness of the tempest, you step down and plant your feet firmly on palpable ground. 

The air pauses in its billowing, the heart trembles, sighing, for a little while, still hopeful, still wondering: where things are found and held--could it have been where you were to have been found, and held, at last?

Is this where the hapless, aimless chase ends?

Somewhere,  a clearing.  Nearby, a promise. From the soul, a hunger, inchoate. The longing to stay. 

Oh, to stay. 

But the breeze turns, unannounced--a host of forebodings arrive, whirring with the wind, and the time for trembling, sighing, closes in, like all days do. To love so fiercely is to invite pain in; to love so madly is to lose yourself.

But it was so still in that last second, so still! How a moment--certain moments--can alter time so.

Still, the feet, reluctant, spring into a run. Gently, at first, then swiftly, as always. Only this time, questions weigh the mind, the heart down, willing the eyes to turn toward directions other than forward.

But that slice of brilliance, so lovely and luminous--

Run. Let the broken heart propel you forward, only forward, always forward. Step on those clocks, crush them with your pain. Summon your strength and keep your eyes where they should be--away, away. Light foot, you are good at this.

Run.

And you are everywhere
even as you are nowhere
in touch, for here is the place
things cherished are laid bare in--
the edge of body's knowing,
the edge of the world.
And I know my task
for the day
is no different from the tide's:
to take in and let go,
to push against land and
pull away, to love you without claims.
For nothing given
is ever owned, and ghosts
we already are
of fickle matter's imaginings.

- J. Neil C. Garcia, "Gift"
from The Sorrows of Water

"They took to silence. They touched each other without comment and without progression. A hand on a hand, a clothed arm, resting on an arm. An ankle overlapping an ankle, as they sat on a beach, and not removed. One night they fell asleep, side by side... He slept curled against her back, a dark comma against her pale elegant phrase."

- A.S. Byatt, Possession

Arrival

"And when I go away from here, this will be the mid-point, to which everything ran, before, and from which everything will run." - A.S. Byatt, Possession

You are the middle of the story, where my favorite story begins.

You are an early morning, lovely and bright, you are beams of sunlight slanting on surfaces where dust motes dance gracefully upward, mimicking starlight.

You are a balmy breeze, kissing my cheeks, teasing my skin into dreaming of flight, glorious and terrifying.

You are a brisk walk along a sunlit side street.

You are the anticipation pushing the heart and feet to go faster, faster.

You are two pairs of eyes grazing each other from a distance, locking, gazing away and returning, unlocking and meeting again.

You are the mind soaring, looking for a wall to lean against, because unsteady, because uncertain.

You were last week's thoughts, yesterday's pang of regret, last night's gaping absence, the dawn's promised sight.

You are the quiver along the spine, the tremor in the heart, the ray of light rippling the soul.

And you are, finally, finally, the beaming smile in a crowd--the face that has haunted my dreams night after night--breathtaking, oh, so breathtaking to at last behold, looking at me, smiling at me.

You are the word luminous.

Contain

Your name lingers near my mouth like a kiss that never quite happens--
fingertips hovering over delicate wineglass,
breeze brushing past leaf after trembling leaf.

I keep still, so still
lest I spill you over, all over.

I look for you in the rustling restlessness of moments.

I long for the peace of your presence--if these quickenings be peace, if these flutterings be peace.

Slivers of silver course through my being at your nearness. I am alive, love, alive because. I feel the brush of the air, hear the faintest beating, see the glimmer in things.

I gush into fountains. Be kind and let me flow.

I have let go.

The trembling, pulsating heart insists: there is sense in this.

Breathless and a little lost, I run, wild, in haze and mist.

Anchor me.

For what is longing but the space between the absence of the beloved and their presence? Still, the minutes stretch like miles in the pathways of the mind, the hours, endless ribbons leading somewhere, then nowhere.

We wait in the shade of sunset, open our eyes to a burst of sunrise--another day insists its distance. I have been told that time is nothing but my mind persists in grappling with clocks. I emerge, scathed, the hours, enemies. And I thought I had mastered the art of moments, the same I who has--had--learned that there are no answers to questions. I wait, and impatiently. I sulk at my wrist. Time is nothing.

I stare at walls and see your silhouette. I am mocked by my own shadow.

Blue

"But now, love, we are here, we are now, and those other times are running elsewhere."

        - A. S. Byatt, Possession

I have told you about this; painted this picture for you, as best as my frail, limited language can, as ardently as my feeble heart can. I have told you about how, in a dream, you were surrounded by beautiful blue, smiling, happy. Do you remember?

I have summoned this moment, love. I have summoned you. One moonlit night, my soul called out, mouthing your name. Night after night, wrapped in starlight and song, I waited.

And in this instant, you have come, palpable and magnificent, the waves crashing behind you, golden sand stretched out before you. From where I am, your soul materializes: your childhood becomes visible, shining through your eyes; your fears raw; and your joy, unabashed. In this moment, you are my entire universe.

I can see you, love. I do. Now walk with me down that tree-lined path. Walk me home.

Soul-like, something slips from my grasp and goes to you. A promise? A sigh? A question?

Something--a word, a phrase. I cannot quite be sure. With you, I never am.

How suddenly, surprisingly sad, the word parallel.

Step forward. Retreat. What dance is this, what chase, game, subterfuge?

We were walking along a tree-lined path. We were looking at the sea. We were tracing the stars with our eyes.

We were. We were. I run my fingers along these words--the texture, painful, scratching my skin.

Something in me reaches out to touch you and I draw back, empty-handed.

This, I understand: I am lost in a loss of my own making.

What sadness is this, what woe? I can hear the waves crashing to shore, only the sound is receding, only the blue, dimming.

What ails the ailing heart, ailing in spite of what it knows, ailing because it knows? It knows, my love, it knows.

I write your name on the sand and realize the sea will take back what it bestows, bequeathing only memory.

The sea is constant. It giveth, taketh. All the while, it remains, its magnitude, engulfing.

The heart shudders in this knowledge. For what can love give that cannot be taken away?

Still, the heart remains. Like the sea, it is steadfast--being, despite the tide, beating, despite the fear. Whispering your name, chanting I am, you are, we are.

Daphne, defeated

Because I was afraid of the recognition my light had seen in yours, I ran, and ran. And as I ran, I threw shafts of darkness your way, conjuring erasure, willing the shadows to take over.

I did not know all this will come to be--I was so certain, my love, so certain. But the heart is wise in ways unknown to us.

I had consigned you to the shadows, but your light has shone through. Dazzled, I turned my turned back; dazzled, I stared. Dazzled, I allowed myself to be drawn in to you. Dazzled, I succumbed to your brilliance.

My nimble feet are nimble no more. The weak, blurred edges have given way to clarity. I now recognize what I have always known to be sacred, what I have felt to be more powerful than the strength I tried to break it with.

And now here I am, bathed in the glow of you. Breathless from running away, and scarred in the struggle, I recognize my defeat and lay my (erstwhile) hesitant heart before your feet.

And what now, my love? What now?