This love, now

One last rain shower shimmers on leaves,
Green, now their reds and purples emerge;
Water shines, collects and drops like tears from hurt eyes,
Soon dry; soundless. Then still.

Shrunken, then brittle, their skin dissolves
Leaving bones, abandoned passions,
Grasping air in a stiff uncertain hold;
A hand, soft and warm outstretched, now empty.

Somewhere your voice; in between silence.
Somewhere that joy turned inward, then cold,
The sweetness drained, crystalized in icy breath.
A scratch in your throat; a question unanswered.
IMG_3465

So ask, and ask aloud.
Stand among the dead and dying and cry out the soul within;
Shed the fears like an old coat, trample the worries;
Run screaming, joyful, demanding.

Then stand together, trembling fingers on soft cheeks.
No cold, no distance, warmth; then touch, then taste.
The light that you are, the being whole;
The voice you have, inviting. Hold me.

We are these things between us, these ebbs and flows,
the silence, the noise; the distance, wanting.
Cry out, the silence breaks; the light from your eyes,
The darkness fades. Break this chrysalis. This love; now.

Dance. In your red dress. Push back the walls and laugh.
Dance. Run screaming, joyful, demanding.
Dance.
And be.

About michaelstephendaigle

I have been writing most of my life. I have written at least three complete novels, have three others started and on my website michaelstephendaigle.com is the draft chapter of the latest effort,"The Swamps of Jersey."
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