1923 was the year
the year you began and
the year you became

an

i m p r i n t

on the world of those
you hadn't even thought of
yet


1957
the year she began
and the year you b e c a m e
the one who would
b e c o m e
my douxlorraine

douxlorraine
as sweet as honey
suckle on the vine
of my thoughts
and fears

i would inherit your
douxlorraine
the things that made you
both beautiful and
scared and
sweet and
soft
and
strong
and
weak

1995
was the year I began
and the year you b e c a m e
my douxlorraine

i don't remember
when we
met
but i know
the
i m p r i n t
of you
in my veins
in my thoughts
in my prayers

it's you.

i would have never known
unless i saw
the light meet your face
that morning.

neither of us are early risers,
but i couldn't waste
a second.

above me,
at 6:40 in the morning,
a perfect blend of
blue, gray, and sincerity,
which was born
on the rising sun,
peered through an ivory curtain,
and landed on a gentle face.

infinity soaked gaze,
honey coated touch,

your color was
the crisp mountain air
through a rolled down
Jeep window.

your color was
a John Prine record
and local barbeque

your color was serene.
it was the light's reflection of
a summer enveloped
by two people
in love with
right now.

-Anna Blake

i left your wine glass
on my bedside table

for seven days
it settled in the very place
that your hands had aimlessly
chosen

staining a ring around a mostly empty bodice.

mostly empty?
barely full?

you see, for me,
the wine glass was
my way of having you
stay as long as I wanted.

I saw your delicate
fingerprints stamped upon
the stem and body

just as they were on mine, under a tin roof
amidst a blanket of summer rain.

                                 ......

i washed the glass tonight

as you boarded the plane to the rest of your life.

i wonder if you'll think of me as you sip on your complimentary glass.

rouge ou blanc, mon amour?
rouge comme mon amour?
ou blanc comme mon remise?

-Anna Blake

I met you in the mountains.
Of evergreens and water
lillies. You never said too much
but still I knew.
I've always known that your kisses are
July and your smell is November.

But I am infinite June.
Half way point.

Forever split.

Between the perfection of your touch,
And your inevitable escape.

-Anna Blake