Our love is punctuated
When language becomes a word
For our bickering spirits.
We are two birds
Beating our wings
Against the others’ wind.
With me, I had known
Your heart, my pen… a poem.
When you would say my name,
I had it all…a home.
❤
Holds her petals firm,
And for moments they flutter,
Not flight, no, they fall.
Amongst the heavens,
Space between my emotions,
Passes just slower.
What can we say of our last words?
I think they live in memory
To bind the ruins of the self
Till ruin lives it’s infancy.
You are my inevitable inspiration.
At first, you are my language.
Then, you are my tongue.
At last, you are the moment I can’t swallow.
And sometime after that, you are gone.
Had I been ready to pray,
When we sat beneath the oak,
What would have I to say,
If I hadn’t listened to these folk.
It’s not that careless I came,
Or that my spirit’s stern,
But nothing is the same
When I hear the oak and fern.
I asked in the love of our days,
“What will you last love me for?”
She kissed me with these words,
“We will mourn many deaths,
Before we mourn our own…”
So she said “…a poem.”
I’d often think that fireflies
Would drink beyond their means,
Stuttering aloft this canopy
Spilling sips of revelry.
ahorsealone 
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