One window is sealed, the other open;
an opportunity to push the envelope
into the box and send myself
to sleep.

The alternative is too literal
for words. I kiss the glass.

Your lips glisten
with impossibilities
condensed and dripping
to a drought-stricken sigh.

Some things are heart-wrenchingly beautiful
and annoying all at once.
Or maybe it's
every thing
some times.
I like separation for its asphyxiated sense of drama.

That, and we are safe here.
We can let our glistening mouths bare glittering words
together, apart
and wonder at the difference an open window can make.

The nets ruffle, catch polyhedonistic droplets,
unravel and recompose. As a child, I love
to puddle-splash, soil my trash, revel
in the ruin of insidious desire. In maturity
I construct
a world
within the lines that draw themselves
hermetically, reflecting the sobriety of light.

Between flesh of verse and essence of veracity
a pulse will resonate with child-like delight
as we play scrabble with uncertainty
and breathe a sky that spells relief
for tensions pent beneath a lustre
engaged to romanticise dry land.

There is a hidden intensity in every moment
every blink, gaze and word
is only a refraction of something welling within and withering.
And imagine the force behind those interactions
we already view as passionate.

What would you make of it?
Another thing we can invoke, glimpse and grapple,
but not grasp?

Age defiant, we may scrawl our wishes
in pencil lead or ink.
Children wish to understand the world around them,
with age I long more to understand the world within.

The urge to suppress
paints faces on clouds
that envelop the pathology
of self-possession. Not everything
is blue or white, much as I might wish
to fly that elemental fallacy.

The glass has a purpose that is clear; for each
to see the other within
her own reflected image, to measure
x degrees of intimate separation, to sense
a sleepless scintillation that transcends
the flash of hours we spend
negotiating terms with the mundane.

Only through our own eyes or each other's
can we read the truth we compromise into being
from mouths open and eager to share,
if only to fool ourselves into believing.

11/08/2011

Author's Note: The aromatic Anita Mac, redolent with poetic presence, leaves me hungry for more, as ever...
teasing out those atypical human traits is not easy :>)
[those of my traits, naturally -- nothing atypical about my partner's humanity]

Posted on 11/08/2011
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