Here is a letter
Because my hand moves
More smoothly and fluid
Than my tongue and my
Blood rolls down my finger-
Tips painting pages better
Than words roll past my lips
To speak poetry so...
One. I'm sorry i hurt you
You let me into the darkest
Parts of you and I, like a child
Holding a bucket of paint
In a white room, ruined you
I'm sorry.
Two. You forgave me.
Thank you.
You wiped clean every streak
Of pain i drew on your walls
and yes, i left some stains
But you are beautiful still.
You always have been.
Three. You love me, and I
Love you.
I do not believe love is magic
Love is patient as you are with
Me and it is quiet
Like i am with you and love
Love is human.
It lives and dies
And i hope it dies with me
Four. You will lose me
One last time. Before the end
I will hurt you and everyone
I hold dear. One last time.
Five. I will never tire of seeing
Your face. It will keep me sane
In our years apart.
And six. I will wait. Here where
Its calmer. I will wait for when
Your hair grays and teeth yellow
And when your memory shifts
Like sand and you forget us
I will wait. And when you finally
See me here
Seven. I will listen to every story
You had since i left and i will hear
About every single morning you
Spent with another and i will
Eight. I will tell you i love you. For
The first time since i left i will tell
You again, i love you. Fresh
Off my tongue like the first time
I uttered those three words
I love you.

the weight of tears leaves no traces. apparently. pain has no axis of symmetry, but petrifying meanings. everybody must be afraid. there is no point. there is no point in the scream of windows, in the continuity of doors.
in a turbulent ray of light. this destructive force, the orphan desire of a child. its autistic strife. pain, the silent witness of unlived lives. streets keep their rhythm and pretend all is forgiven. rarely is. there are more pains than people. hear the steps in the geometry of desire.  reinvented desire to love. to let live.

every full stop is an abyss of breath.

before i even write the title,
i set it to draft
selected as unworthy before it's born

i tell myself i might not want to write about writing
because of something someone said sometime
about mistakes

then if i remember right
i edit my memory:
after editing this poem
i am seeing clearly:
a censored Mnemosyne
raging from her shaded, titanic head

music may be involved.
or film,
or living well
or finding myself unable to speak out against bigotry
or those who'd impose their choice on another's body

the chills.
inseparable sensate emotions.
often they spread over the left side of my back, neck and head
.usually they feel good.
i think they may always feel good
like tears
and the urge to sing alone
or the sharp yearning:
i must tell this someone something soon

like
'the ocean overspills imaginal seas
and yet is less than what i want it to mean'

How does the mountain thank the breeze?
How does the ocean sway,
A changed direction switched to thee
A wave who could not stay

Two mere creatures of the dust,
And one, by far, the better
Deep below the world's thick crust
With dreams matched to the letter

The icy breeze may hold the truth
Which one, unwisely, held
The other, so,  had thought, 'forsooth!'
The one, too far, compelled

A ring, a wrap, of roses neat
All thorns and vines and taint
Around, around, to near defeat
One never was a saint

And so one leaves with fear and hate
After layers of mistake
Some will think it comes too late
The other one might break

But this was not to spite from one
And not in fault of thee
Nor in rashness, careless done
Mayhap one day you'll see

How in this truth, so taught by act
The withering may start
The found are far more lost, in fact
Without a place in heart

And so one says goodbye at last
To her friend, the other
Though space between their lives is vast
They'll meet in yet another

Missing words
softly surge
through her silence
again
like long
soothing fingers
of whispering
rain
that soak
their way in
through her bare
thirsty skin
until
not a dry moment
remains
.

There are always new places
For our feet, always
Another,
Wearing out the shoes,
The veins, and soles.
I learned to love the world
From your waist down.
There is no end for travel.

We travel and travel more.
The buses fill, the jeepneys,
And the planes. The trains fill,
Terribly fill. Boracay fills.
And what a tedious postcard
This is,

When the whole point
Of the matter is this: that
We are bound, headed, destined
To someplace else,
Boundless, vast
And everlasting--
A non-lifetime--

Which pretty much answers
Why love does not return.
I think that love could,
But must not return.
And I will carry you on,
You,
On my back,
Just to prove it.*

© 2014 J.S.P.