I got caught up in poetry,
     Her eyes, her hazel, are poetry,
Hair, swaying smoothly, this artistry,
Cinematography, languidly left me
With purpose, the tussle
     Of a clumsy serenade.

Since she left, the strings of the guitar
Echo her questioning. They move
As though to flicker back to her eyelids,
     To sway a feeling back to hope,
To dreams, returning,
     Coming back to me.

Cruel is a day so calm without her,
You would wish for clouds
To be the serpents, envenoming your heart,
     Your infallible heart.

Her soul, surreal, is poetry,
     Hyperbole, that she got me singing,
Covering that Bic Runga hit,
Over and over, lulling the sun
     To its blue blanket, to sleep
          One afternoon.

And yes, I miss her,
     Clear as a sentence well put,
A ballad, aching with me, the longing
Of a five-minute song, yet
There is no fear in love,
     I convince myself,

          Love is patient
               Before it is kind.*

© 2015 J.S.P.