The first time we met I meticulously noted in my diary
How every pore of your skin exuded
Such an arousing and magical magnetism That I could feel my feet tearing apart gravity. The raven hair, the inequable and moist lips, The problematic blue lights dyed in tantalizing lakes And wiped softly with immaculate chicories. It stirred me As a grinder. All to titbits.
There was no promise of jumping off the hook. My mind was stuck on you as glued, melted in your Image, as the spheres of kaleidoscopic ice cream that My negligence once subdued To a whipped picture on the avenue concrete. No cork could have staunched the stream of Our motional, tumultuous Smoldering seizures. We scrawled a flawed and irrefutable resolution To our frissons. On every inch of bare skin, And miles beyond it.
The last time we met I vouchsafed to memory, With apocryphal perfunctoriness,
The solicitous necessity of “it was the time, and the right Space and stage for it. Not anymore.” The glass of the hourglass had broken, The diamonds hidden in sand had been uncovered. Too bright the discomfiture. We both carried in our fists, clenched together, Beside the Gothic columns of the
The crystalline particles of our plummeted beings. On tenterhooks. A malicious subterfuge of deviant course Couldn’t permit our infatuation to be ossified Into an imperishable anvil.
It was the imprecation of maturity that veiled Its pall of inner Darwinism on our storyline. A juvenile besottedness. Mine. Yours. Ours.