My darling be true, even at the edge of our glories,
corner the light that reigns our stories.
Love me a river, let the fishes come through,
border out the seas that separate us from the moon.
You’ll be the wind that fans my thin, indigo petals,
I’ll be the champion that wraps around your medals.
In a cave filled with pyrite you were pure gold,
revered by crooked pirates who touch, but not hold.
You labored the dusk in discord, like an instrument without a chord,
clutching your heart against cracked mirrors that distort.
It entwined with loneliness, like a solo portrait,
You longed for the longest time for a spotless canvas to paint.
Couples with licit hearts,
they fall asleep to the tintinnabulations of church bells;
but you withdrew your noise in desolate forests,
watching pennies plink on the blackish end of old, wishing wells.
It was a few days after your birthday — you gazed at ivies by the bench,
and a gust of wind seemed to be your only friend.
“Do you like them too?” I clap back at the quiet air,
I appear as if daylight has summoned me with its downpouring flare.
“Perhaps I do.” You trace your eyes back to stare.
Maybe it was that moment, or moments after,
but your lavender heart submerged in rivers that filled our thirst.
We spawned in public eye quickly, glances grew prickly,
a hesitation squeezed my lungs, my voice escaped but not sung,
from what I viewed as solemn the townsmen saw foreign.
My intent subsided, maybe love was disguised as violence,
but you churned the rivers of our love, you let the maelstrom simmer,
and perhaps we are not different from the ages of earth.
My darling, you coerce aurora skies to saturate the starry night,
and drag me out into the field to gaze at the northern lights.
We tunnel our words in mystery, as songbirds whisper to the breeze.
As the seconds birch in arms of ebony, tethered to our cries and jubilee.
You demystify the secrets of love with your golden eyes,
Love me a river, ‘till the ashes of tonight dissolve along our plights.