Like all poets since time began, I have been in love. And I have lost that love.
My love is unique, it is mine, and yet it is fairly average. As unique as a snowflake, and as common as sand. You can easily become buried in either of those.
Phrasing this ethereal connection is the meat and drink of poets. One hopes to be universal, yet the truth of the personal nature of love is what must come through to each and every reader. A conundrum, to be sure.
This poem developed slowly, over several sessions of writing. I would open the file, read it through, tweak this line or that phrase, re-read it, and then close it once more, saving my changes, knowing that it was not yet fully cooked. Over the course of two months or so, I kept coming back to this piece, wondering why I could not get it 'just so', and why I could not leave it alone, either.
I have crafted this kiss for you
and you alone.
Others doubtless await you
in the full span of your life
but this one,
this is more dreamt than direct,
and is the only one I have to give.
I have taken unholy risks
to prove that I am
what I cannot possibly be.
What is mere flesh to do?
Driven to its very end
by words with weight,
the forces which shape me
swept off the streets,
Yet I am not lost,
any more than brown leaves
as autumn turns bitter.
You know how to call me
although my name
in your breath
would only confuse the air.
I will wait for you
at this one place in your journey,
like the treasure you do not pick up
until you are returning home,
aware that your painful and distant destination
There is no certainty in the heart,
and Fate has an imponderable,