Owl&Moon

He walks fast.

Head down hands deep in pocket, watching steps.

One. Two. Three.

He is always going somewhere, most often when his body is stilled.

He lives faster, but pauses under bloom of wine and rose’s, till the scent’s wear him like Sunday afternoon’s in a childhood home.

There is musicality in the snap of bent brown wheatgrass under foot. There is promise in shoots of new green reaching for sun.

He hums to the tune of that river babbling around rock and mud, beneath an upside down bridge; he feels all of it climbing through his soles, counts breaths, cherishes heartbeats.

And in hollow nights there is room enough to fill up empty places with sound and laughter, silence and listening. Church bells run the rim of waking, of slumber, the weight of his in-between and it is a gift.

When he speaks, it is cannon fire.

Shocks sparks across my vision and for a moment, I am suspended in primal knowledge. My ears bend, eyes flood.

Just. that. pure.

One more drop I did not know I thirsted for until his lips bore the fruit.

We have weathered 3 seasons, where a quickening plum plume bled over, at the dizzying contact chasing years of seclusion. Where love so exquisitely exploded, while it so beautifully punished.

And so we sleep…

A now. like. this.

Make’s tomorrow, just tomorrow.

Just now. Just here, in dream...

Ruffle of strong breast pushes out the warble’d pitch to fall over us. It usher’s a hush. It’s a wonder.

Nocturnal hunter in nooks high above ever watchful, tests of hunger between woman and creature; we are the same in this lucid dreamscape planet built in farmland and washed wavered in shades of grapes; amber, beige and scarlet’s…shaped within an evening and borne into the night where swimming pools are fat globes of glass; I fan out my fingers, stretch my arm’s wide, the tips of his almost kiss the tips of mine…we walk that way, poised for flight, eyes on the sky, blending into night’s whisper.

…I am an owl, he is the moon.

Majestic in silver waves laughing.

We hunt solace; find comfort in endurance, the gift of growing up, yet again.

And he weaves me stories in a single beam, in ancient heartbeat.

In silences.

In a crooked grin.

He sings out a melody in celestial notes every time his stunning thoughts flash. I eye the rise of land before us, and watch autumn turn, winter blanket, spring lend clarity after the ache, the bind, of ice. I glance back, and our foot prints are still there, if hidden for a time...and my fingers link with the glow, and I am soothed....

The cache of my deepest secrets, breathes easier with his touch woven through the whole of it. A healing thread that binds the blood and bone, love and hate; the cloth now warms in the knowing, stitched clean through his[my] soft acceptance...

…and there his wounds are the mirror that reflect my startling truth; he would break me in a 1000 ways, yet still, would be the calm to piece me whole again.

...Without the shock of him, I would never have known me.

love

We are writhing in a fit of edgier darkness, where the fingers of doubt and ‘should have been’ pierce like diamond tipped talons into a life less than grand already; cloak hardest to shake.

But we do.
We steel our mettle, shucking chains.
Knowing that the payoff of shiny souls collecting pre dawn’s dew kisses in our tarnished silver dents, waits. Solid; still beneath wise trees and bird talk; they know something primal that we have forgotten in the rush of wanting to be doing.
I think on this, on our kind; the same because we are altered.
I want a cigarette; need has never mattered.
I want to curl my lips around cylindrical heat and suffocate myself in slow huffs, while fingering flame. There’s something heated about the poisonous suck and crawl into my pink lungs. Violation, welcome, of inner organ tender; it’s intimate like an orgasm’s ripple; little deaths.
Still writhing.
I’ll take your hand, if you...no. I’ll take yours regardless.
Keep you breathing when enlightenment settles. Feel you shape shift your reality and know your other faces, without looking.
We’ll keep on.
Crawling out of back mind gutters we peer into pretty things that reflect in windows of grand houses we’ll never roam.
How do we keep forgetting the distortion? That of the glass kingdom that they built; it shatters as easily as the one’s we imagine. Foundations sunk in dead ground, where filth seeps into the water, pollutes desire, negates anything they may believe they deserve.
Know, love, that their material devastation is a door blasted wide for us; we, who dwell amid the warmth of mismatched cases of first editions and the sepia and satisfying crack of well-worn bindings and parchment. Who make hardest love to naked pages waiting on assault; welcoming the wrench, we dance for wind chime blasts, and children’s laughter.
We who whisper to makeshift god’s who need no title of god. Share our divinity in strange notes falling after one another; musicality is prayer where no prayer is futile; the beats ring back.
Because in these truest leanest lives, the autumn whispers, the winter envelopes, the sky splits only for those who beg to be cleansed, not clean; and understand the beauty in the difference.
Yes, those slivered shiny fragments of our ‘betters’ undoing, press songs in these gentle ears with each warbled whirl. We will wrap and string those cutting splinters in twine, suede and laces from shoes that gathered time & tale with every step. [Not wasted.] Hang them in moonlit windows.
Split our melancholy with the pirouette of space and longing blinking in the streetlight captured. An amber tinted rainbow that I can settle into your palm. It spins on, with each word we mutter, each laugh we bellow, every rant we blow, under the echo of unhindered love/hate sweat out, waking the dust from another room…
We are dirty, we are righteous as we welcome the trip to get ‘there,‘ we are bloodied, we are cunts in purest honesty, and love and fuck and die harder for it.
Mirrored hallways winding to elusive wrinkles that mimic a home, dazzling in sparse candlelight; but the silver is scratched and the slashes mark our faces ugly when we stare. So turn your head a while and just look up.
There gushes a riot of folding color spilling into our sight.


   The sky is calling.


Climb the bridge with me, and tip your pretty face and sing back bold till we shatter the ozone into a 1000 portals, where we can reach into the highs that trail a wet tongue up our lobes at 4am.
I can see/feel/sink down into the cavity where patient, some kind of other entity superior to love treads on the sorest of wounds, raw under the rush of flesh, of good enough. It settles in for the long haul. Sleeps hunkered through the swells frantic tides, content to rock there on those wet rises, rather than to bail.
Woven through lives worth living, strings and rhythm reverberate a melody that clasps the shadowed rot in the walls of our sore breasts.
Peel back the layers one meaty strip at a time...
...I don’t mind the mess.
My fingers can press through blood and muscle as well as any sharp dressed mindfucker, soul sucker can; the difference is in the touch.
Cradle, or plunder; I’ll craft you a lullaby and lay you down in better, with my hands stained in our undoing. Tattoo’d by the solemn pain of worth that comes of holding on tighter, when fear comes knocking. And we'll let it in for once.
Respect it for it’s jaundiced warning, then stake it to a stardust tapestry on wavy walls with a quill, fine tip, and frame the contortion....


....just another little death, rippling out, wild....