They steal love for the Lasting time.

They steal love for the Lasting time.

mikl paul

 

They must have held one another into the furthest space of letting go.

 

“If this is the last night, I need to tell you.”

 

While he watches the fabric of her dress brush her thighs and remembers chasing clouds hanging low brushing trees and remembering stars hanging low brushing clouds.

 

“If this is the last night, I don’t want any of this light left.”

 

While she watches his hands and his hands and remembers raising from his grip like a seed remembering somewhere above is a bell we call the sun and if I ring it and if I breach the static of this yellowing apartment ceiling I will find that pitch of voice of heart of some shrill calm asking can you see me can you find me. While she watches his hands, remembering all across her how they found.

 

“I knew you were leaving. I knew you were never here. The moment the door opened I knew.”

 

“You can’t mean that.”

 

The vision of the first of tastings; open mouth, hands filled with hair, somewhere near yet further back than they care to see; he needing open air, her, needing to be heard, needing to become open air, and in first givings, a kiss as if a sigh as if a car wreck, unexpected yet destined for that distant someday when the body and the eyes finally decide to close.

 

“This is all that is left.”

 

She straddles him with all that is left and he doesn’t move in the chair doesn’t move to find something hidden that may still be here. Skirt raised, his pants opened, eyes closed, eyes opened, somewhere high above there is a bell we call the sun but

 

Between them now their moon is rising,      “This is all that is left.”

      No.    but,     still,    “This is all that is left.”   

He believes her now. And the wet and his desperate cling to her eucalyptus waist, attempting to memorize what was never his and will soon be once again forbidden. Into her breasts he believes in braille.    “You are all that is left.”

 

   No.   But,     still,

 

 

Reviews

[A. Amos]

Read your poetry like watching a movie. Great job