Make what we will of the sunset,
The purpling sky, the breezes
That tease the linens, and excite the senses
More than any wine.

Should I clasp you about the waist,
Like this? Or place my elongated
Fingertips along your shoulders,
And feeling the slight shudder
That ignites your fire,
Await its full and glorious flame?

Seducer, you moan, you should really stop.
My eyes are on the stars and my mind the universe;
My broken heart awaits another’s salve
And the candles on my sill still call his name.

But fingers pluck the strings of violins
That memories cannot deny.
Loneliness has its way of forgetting
Promises, and his footsteps have
Not traversed the flagstones
In so, so long.

You may claim to loathe the touch of
An interloper, for sure it breaks the spirit
Of Everlasting grief, and threatens
You with facing tomorrow born anew

Still, your fires fuel a need the novels
Only breathe. Your body swings so
Your birdlike fists can beat me off
But spreading fingers across my chest
Testify to his foolish abdication

And whether we take this conflagration
To another place tomorrow is the unwritten
Chapter in the book, where footfalls
Ceased, on stones he paved alone.

07/21/2014

Posted on 07/21/2014
Copyright © 2025 Ken Harnisch