Stranded ( Christmas 2018 )

I told you I would pen          
a brimming future        
in poetry –            
           
however, I am lost in            
what else there is to discover –              
I know your eyes            
by memory, drawing            
           
light from the moon –            
casted as shadows in sun.            
           
I know the space            
you make beside me –            
the form of your arm            
falling over my waist            
in bed, or summer rain            
in the backyard hammock.            
           
I’ve combed your hair            
with a Braille touch –            
and know which part of you grew it:              
facial whiskers as pine needles            
under bare feet,            
your chest fresh –            
honey crisp apples            
leading to an orchard gate.            
           
Your essence is absinthe –              
an emerald anise of truth;              
a compression of blood             
moving my lips –            
making your name, so still;            
you must feel me          
alighting your Spirit        
as a Scarlet Ibis.            
           
Of a million parted mouths            
I would know yours            
by its rich taste of color:            
garnet pomegranate seeds            
crushed across my tongue;            
           
a willing Persephone            
under the spell of promise –            
what else could not having you mean            
except poverty of the poorest            
melancholic existence.            
     
Your words are born    
dimensionally, palpably      
soft as emerging catkins  –    
not spoken or injected    
into the brain like a vaccine.      
                
I have loved you with grace –            
in that your after image            
allows strangers            
to see you in my face            
asking, ‘Who is this            
reflection of yourself’?            
           
Tell me, what else            
is there to gift you            
but this reality –            
no deep burgundy omen            
or brilliant arpeggios –            
only mere truth            
in dark grey typeset;            
           
I am stranded            
on an island of unknowns            
between two rivers:            
Hope and Doubt –            
           
sustained solely by your Love.            
           
~