Mother language:
A symphony of life as it was.
As it slips
From our rusty lips,
We are drunk
With time gone by.

Before the tourists
Leaked, like sunshine,
Through the waves,
Into once sleepy
Seaside towns,
This land was all
Our home.

I'm horrified
That the me that I thought was me
    maybe isn't me anymore.
That those symphony plans,
    Painted with every note of a thousand flutes
    Dancing in the careful staccato of violins
    Drowning in the deep thrum of a bass
Have gone  out of tune.
That those dreams, works of art
Hanging in the Louvre,
    Gold and silver, blue and blazing crimson,
    Chiseled paper thin, and yet,
    Portraying the strength of Mars himself
Have become numbed by flash photography
And by tourists who crowd
My little museum mind
For the fame, and not the art.
That when it all comes down to it,
How can I live a life
Sails to the wind, all anchors cut loose,
When, now, those chains bleed
If I take a knife to them?

Her mind was in Hawaii,
Dancing under waterfalls,
Wandering through rainforests,
Picking tropical flowers and
Braiding them into her hair,
Simmering on sandy beaches,
And gazing at the stars.

Her heart was in Normandy,
Eating crepes and sipping lattes,
Strolling through spring green fields
And along lazy river banks,
Kissing the walls of castles,
And scooping up scallop shells,
Soaking up French syllables.

Her hands were in her pockets,
High-fiving friends and
Running through her lover's hair,
Sewing, cooking, washing,
Punching, tearing, scratching,
Caressing and confessing,
Catching the very first drops of rain.

Her feet were on the streets of Seattle,
Tapping to the rhythm of the bass,
Shuffling in and out of the rain,
Dodging puddles and strangers,
Observing art and sculptures,
Chasing down a taxi or her dog,
and embracing the crisp autumn air.

Her lips were on the edge of a soda can,
Singing along to her favorite songs,
Whispering sweet nothings into the air,
Empowering the impoverished
And scorning the injustice,
Kissing a forehead, lips, and hads,
And stonecold silent as her mind does the work.

Her eyes were fighting back frosty tears,
Swallowing scarlet sunsets,
Painted in yesterday's make up,
Tracing your stoic silhouette,
Rolling like thunder before the storm,
Lapping up dizzying moonlight,
And buried in words, and words, and words.

Her body was in Los Angeles,
But, she was on a metanoia,
Breaking free of past and future
To find herself a presence
That would always be worth fighting for,
To reach sophrosyne, namaste,
And to put her frantic body to peace.

Oh, I had loved,
Dear and deeply.
The drumming of
His fingertips on
The spinning steering wheel.
The whispered jokes
Tumbling through his
Stumbling lips.
Her eyes painted with
Chalky make-up and
Foggy with alcohol.
His hands as they
Grabbed at my hair
To untangle a necklace.
Her voice as it
Warbled along to the
Rambling song over the radio.

Oh, I had loved.
So dear,
So deeply.

But I had never been
In love.
I had never swam in
That rolling ocean
In which crash,
After crash,
You lift your head
Above the waves to
Meet his eyes again
To find some calm within
The storm.

I had never flown in
That sky so thick with
Milky fog to catch
A glimpse of starlight
Twinkling in the
Dizzying distance
And known I could find
Home in him.

I had never torn through
That dancing jungle,
The hunter, the hunted,
All at once,
To see that I've
Been chasing after
Someone who was
Already mine.

Oh, I had loved dear and deeply,
But I had never been so in love,
Until I met you.