Your Fonder Heart

Do you think the moon dreams about me, too? Last night I dreamt we were fighting like we did when we were kids. Angry with one another, a feeling I remember, but a reason I do not. So angry - with the one I love. I'm sorry I was angry again.  I'm sorry I love you so much, it's easy to be angry with you. But mostly, I'm sorry that I bottled that up  years ago and can't express anger anymore. That sure would have come in handy a few times, eh? Imagine if, instead of being cross with you, I set boundaries - I confused anger and love for so long.

  What if, instead of blood and guts our bodies were filled with the warm wash of light of a summer evening; the slow warm glow beaming through our skin bones made of wind, organs quivering under the gentle sway of our blood vessels, swishing back and forth and back and forth the way your heart beats through your chest when you’re falling in love (not a pitter-patter but a rumble, a roar, a relapse of reality); but rather than falling in love with someone we’ve gone and sank our teeth into the pages of poetry. When the incandescent glow inspired by words lays bare the truth, and the secrets we hide behind fall way, how can we pretend our own mortality, the dousing of the light isn’t the most pressing matter at hand. Crushed, ground, atomized beneath the weight of all the poems we’ve yet to read. Adulation, plateau, cherry red cherry tree cherry pie, blue sea blue sky blue dogs blues music blue moods, diastema, diatribe, progress reports and progressive rapports, rapturous raptors, bala