Our Lives

I’m a writer;
Sure, I can rhapsodize
And improvise
Or use words
To mimic true love.

But art is weaker than life;
Living is more than delving
Into a bag of letters
Scrabbling them into order
Like rune tiles to cast our fate.

This is not a defence
Of my art
But an explanation-
Making stories is part of my craft
But mostly, I'm a heart whisperer.

And yes, I write about you,
Reams and reams of rhymes
But Proust would understand
Those Madeleine moments
When a sound or scent
Incants your presence
And I simply write it down.

Over and over my heart breaks
Never in the same pattern of pieces
But breaks nonetheless…

And when that happens
I retreat to my sacred landscape-
The foothills of the stars

I go there often to sleep

So, I use words
Only to counter your spells,
Your sex magic,
The dark penumbras
Of your eyes

And in the end,
Words save me
From a desert of arid nights
And the emptiness of sighs.

I have determined
To use words
Only to conjure
Your spirit
That dwells within.

But know this—

All lights dim
When you walk in.