Spacious silence, I inhale her sweetish scent.
She’s so close, here, internal.
The dawn reveals the horizon,
I can't help but breathe her.
Vermilion clouds disperse where
I will meet her again.

Stars twinkle elsewhere,
the darkness recedes and somewhere behind
I hear the last whispers of the night.
These whispers merge with the rhythm of my heart.
I was with her,
I surrendered to her gloom,
it covered my skin, I inhaled it.
Every beat of my heart resonated with her breath.
The stars faded in my eyes
and I slowly sank in her rhythms.

So high.
Pain no longer mattered.
I devote.

The sun will rise quickly,
blue and white fragments of clouds will fly away
to rain down and vanish into infinity.

Silence seeps in the sounds of a new day.
She is still on my mind.
Our moment is eternal.

She is glaring and majestic.
She lures birds,
makes them return again and again,
lie down on her flows and
slowly die forgetting about food.
Her depth is infinite.
Love.

The wind passes her power.
Storms, waves and the earth -
everything is for her.
She gives and takes back.
And only at the edge
I will look in her eyes.

She will appear with a cry of a rain,
shed unrestrained tears,
the wind will be lost in the agony of fire.
Her mad rage is frightening.
But few know her as I do.
Few believe that she is the love,
to which everyone is doomed.

She is riotous,
frenzied and mysterious.
Her gaze freezes the blood.

When the next night comes,
the moon will cover shadow with cold rays,
I will give all my feelings to its obscurity.

I bow down to her.
She totally fascinated me.

A gentle touch,
A faint smile,
she will smudge
the night sky.
She will weave a wreath
of clouds and stars.

She finally crowns me with that beautiful wreath.
Death.

dark night
a cabin deep in the jungle
raindrops whispering
on leaves
on the rooftop
on everything
soft steady like an old lullaby
and I’m sitting here
by the dim light
yellow and flickering
writing a poem
about you
for you
because you are near
not here
but near
somewhere in the sleeping village
and that’s enough tonight

by morning
you’ll come
you always do
you’ll open that wooden door
it will creak just right
like a story beginning again
your footsteps will press into the wet fragrant soil
and I’ll hear them
before I see you
and I’ll know
without looking
it’s you

how timeless it feels
how classic
this quiet expectant night
like a paused breath
like the world waiting too

is this a poem I write
or is it one
time is writing through us
without asking

maybe we are not the writers
maybe we are the lines
being drawn
slowly
tenderly
by the brush of this moment
a painting
time never finishes

and maybe
that’s the beauty of it

Her words
were deep
like still water
that remembers storms.

My replies
were deeper,
echoes carved
from silence and soul.

She whispered,
“I wish I could buy you.”
And I,
without hesitation,
said,
“You can.”

She paused,
eyes holding the question,
“And what would your price be?”

I looked away,
toward the night sky
that never belonged to anyone,
and answered,
“My freedom!”

What does a kiss on a soft cheek cost?
A heart?
Laid in her palms
Is that the price?

Or a soul
Should it be
At her feet
Sacrificed?

Or maybe the time that is left
The last breath
The final sigh
In return
For a moment,
For lips to touch?

Tell me
What more should someone offer?
What more will she ask?

For the right
To rest
Two weary pilgrims
My longing lips
on the sacred land
of her cheek?

The moonlight fades, the stars turn cold,
The echoes whisper stories untold.
Her voice still lingers in the air,
A haunting ghost, a vacant stare.

She left, and time began to stall,
Each moment stretched, yet meant nothing at all.
The walls still hum our quiet song,
But even they know it won’t last long.

Her scent still clings to hollow space,
Yet I can’t trace her fading face.
My hands reach out to grasp the past,
But love like ours was not meant to last.

The nights grow long, the dawn stays far,
My sky is bare without her star.
And though the world still turns the same,
Without her, even fire feels tame.

If love could heal, if time could mend,
Would silence bring this heart an end?
Or must I learn to walk alone,
In empty halls once called my home?

She,
voracious reader, nearly a book a day,
she loves Rushdie, Ishiguro, E. Stout,
and so many, many more, a daily add
to an ever growing list of auteurs, all
venerable and venerated, my little bits
pale, don’t even qualify to compare,
so what’s a poet to say, or feel, beside
tears in his eyes, so hereby withdraws his
awarded accolade, HGF,
His Greatest Fan

now that there is a vacancy, looking for
fufillment, now that there is a hollowed
hallow plus a clogged artery, side by side,
both within,

even
an officialized fossilized a
doctor declaration of “chronic heart failure”

who knew docs still diagnosed love sickness?

loss of love could manifest
itself so decisively physically,
and yet I blame her not, and
thank her for the inspiration,
for all the poems birthed in
her presence, and what swill
will /may follow will never be as good,
for memories inevitable yellowing,
discoloration infestation inevitable,
earn my pallor palest poverty
and like a used car, good enough
for daily trips to the office, but not
for cross country trips,

and perhaps
that means,
only smaller,  
somewhat
used up,
and  e v e n
not only,
only love poetry

open to direction
road trip to
Sweet Sorrow Land

She never loved big noisy be-in
And always walked the streets in fast.
She never tried to hide herself.
But she was of an opened heart.

They thought she was as if an ice queen,
Puffed-up and only on her own.
It didn’t matter to her fully
And suited her in spite of all.

She never thought of their mind.
She simply lived with peace inside.
She loved to walk under umbrella.
It was her own uncaptioned guard.

She really loved her own loneliness.
She liked to feel herself apart.
The inner silence gave her calmness
And truth inside of her in fact.

Night was her just a single friend.
She loved to be all by herself.
She dreamed under the lights of lanterns.
No stamps, no people were no less.