Beautiful!
I dreamed of seeing your lips part, opening cautiously as week-old tree buds between birth and bloom. Here, on my imagined eve, your eyelight weakens me, outpouring shafts of lost rememberings— white petals strewn over pink-checkered dresses queen anne’s lace woven through honey-gold hair tiny mary-janes clap the rhythm of ritual de-flowering thin, nursery-rhyme voices chant the mantra of uncertainty —and your eyes explode with light and light and light spearing through brief shades of Memory; my weak, old body straining through to see as sound like flutesong full of breath floats forth from an unfathomed place in your throat, saying, soft as discarded petals, “I love you not.” |
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