past lives iii.

an equal
my equal
                tell me again why you came here
             why you trust me;

    our dance is not linear,
          contemporary – perhaps

     we have until forever to listen to one another
             all the time to put the pieces
                       up against themselves
and I could hear you,
              h e a r you for hours

        cheek pressed into your hand,
               I won’t tell you I love you
             no, I want to paint it in my eyes
      dressed in linen and curled in your lap;

                    I will not step back,
              you are magnetic, a pull at my core
         defy what you knew
                      come see what I see

                my breathing is shallow
             meditation leads to your voice
                      velvet is dull comparatively speaking
                   and it is all I can do
                                    to hug you to my heart

      no, I will tell you I love you
               tattooed into my skin,
             because the shortest distance
                  between two points
                      is between your soaring heart
                 and my throbbing soul

past lives ii.

     the lazy strumming of guitar, he listens to her sing
               of the way the colour of his smile
          leaves her breathless
                  the way his heart lies awake in her bed
                and spins the evening onto her tongue;

   leaning against the porch, 
          she commits to memory
       the arch of his shoulders, the cusp of his hands
                 grassland sunshine streaked through
           the expanse of his skin;

                                    all in a day’s work –
                   he nestles her into his shoulder
                         over-sized chair their throne of one;
          the adornments of her touch
                              painted down his neck, across his throat
                        as she hums to him the warmth of their bodies:

let me tell you the things I know:
the ends of this plane do not know
what lengths I would reach for you;
the scratch of pen on paper do not translate
the soothing fire you released;
                        the world’s greatest stage cannot show you
                                                 that I will raise you up
                                                 to the stars
                                                     to see you succeed

        
goddess help me, she breathes
              his hands in her hair
the things you conjure in me …

past lives i.

      she used to pray to st. jude
                       loss left her listless
                   scraped and bruised, oh, st. jude –

         and then the cavern collapsed, and
                    past lives ran by her like music;
                  she saw his face, this wasn’t their first dance
                            was it?

          whisper-silent, gradual introduction,
       she felt like a shotgun, pointed the wrong direction
              felt more comfortable in chaos –

          she cannot keep her words to herself
        the roar and rush of the falls that bellowed
                 inside her, hoarse

     tipped out the amphora’s contents at her feet
            left in the wake of his bruising mouth
        no need for gunpowder when he cocked her heart

                      thinking about this too much,
                 hearing your voice in her mind
                         stopping thinking, start feeling

  learning to rediscover you,
        rediscover me,
                       this isn’t reinvention
                          this is reinvigoration

             nervous beginnings,
         caught her unawares –
                      love is chaos, the blasted fool

                  now nerve endings, rising at words
              soft rendering of touch
                     editing, retouching, but
                they have already seen the mistakes
                             they’re corrected together –

       it is hard to corral the music
             of the heart
                   when the symphony changes instruments every day
          but the melody holds the same meanings
              the conductor still holds the same feelings