As daylight shone through my open window
I write this to you, for you alone
for every ounce of faith I have,
I have in you, for you alone.
And they say you cannot write a poem
without moonlight caressing your soul
as if night itself is the key to your heart.
It is not, for the key is found in you, for you alone.
You see it isn’t impossible; playing Debussy
with the sun shining, that the tremor brought by
the soulful ache of Clair De Lune can be delivered
any time of the day. This ache I share with you,
for you alone.
I touch the soil where we freed all our aches, and all our rage;
and I try to remember everything in vivid details: the corners of
your mouth trembling and your Adam’s apple bobbing, the way
you rested your hand on the caverns of my *****.. The fire was gone but I still feel you there. This I remember not for what it’s worth, but
for you alone.
I think of you and how you held my head in the meadows,
while we lay in your Mom’s plaid picnic blanket, reading Sylvia’s
words to my heart’s content. We should meet in another life,
she said, we should meet in air, me and you. And I will meet you
there, not to live the other life or breathe the air; I will meet you
there for you and for you alone.