strange kinda strange love
itís a strange kinda strange love
hides from the fiery sun, shameful as Hester Prynne
we are lovers condemned to make love in the dark.
she was with someone, but it wasnít right, it wasnít true.
a woman has a poem in her heart, & a man should be able
to read it. I donít know much, but I knew it was there; I
knew it cried to be heard, like a song in the silent alleyways.
she had to sneak away to be with me. we crept through the
city like hunted insurgents, & the streets were full of Gestapo.
minutes, only minutes could she spend with me; not enough
to taste the kisses that barely sustained me. she had
obligations, others that needed her care.
when she was gone, I embraced the air that somehow still
held her heat & her smell. the pain was so unbearable at
times that I wished I had never found her. never heard her
name, or touched her face.
it was the knowing that she would be gone for good one day
& there was nothing I could do about it. that knowledge of a
future, near or far, that murdered me a little bit at a time.
Ösomething happened; I was never really clear about it.
tragedy followed tragedy, & she could no longer abide in
the chains of deception.
she needed to run, beyond mountains & rivers, & I could
not take her that far. the night came upon us, & we stole
a small piece of it.
I loved her. I loved her for the last timeÖ
I left her at the station, on a southbound train,
& reckon Iíll never see her again.
(Art: Alfred Cheney Johnston)