“You have done all this before”, you said,
claiming you did not mind, denying any
needle of hurt in your heart.
Was I a fake, I mused
in the silence before reply, did I, each time,
take out love’s hypodermic and
press it into old veins running cold, did I
only project onto each new, blank canvas
that came my way?
“All your muses have dark and wavy hair”, you said,
pulling at the straight, silk auburn of your own.
I had no answer – nothing to say –
a springing fox caught. A vacant ‘criminal’, I ran
through an excuse like moving fingers across a brow:
‘my anima has dark and wavy hair – raven
hair and exotic eyes; I looked for her, but I do not now,
she is of the past and gone or just un-jealous now.’
Relaying messages to and
fro across nerve ends, a ‘spiritual’
Casanova, I wondered myself to be, loving
love in all those times and places, the tremble
in the veins, the focus and shining in the moment.
But no, I feel, as a light and stream
pass through a glimpse of glade as the night lifts,
this is a new pattern, a new palate,
a different sense of place and time,
this is a chance;
here, in you, I will embolden,
here I will battle and storm with you,
here I will share the rage
and tremor of you,
I will bathe with you in argument, as
we combine in seeking and create a newtopia
with our mutual flame.