In my salad days, I was green in judgement, perhaps cold in
blood, knowing that the stroke death is as a lover's pinch, which hurts and is desired,
and her music, moody food for us, who trade love, and I come to understand that
she makes the most hungry where she most satisfies, and I need use my lips to
gently pry her open, to lie beside her, with her, within her, knowing that when
she leaves this world so much vanishes with her going.
I have Immortal longings in me: The juice of Egypt's grape shall moist this
lip: I am fire and air; my other elements. I give to baser life. Come then, and take the last warmth of my
lips. While I continue to wrestle with you in my strength of love.
In time we hate that which we often fear. We are ignorant of
ourselves, begging for what harms us most, and our inner wiser nature denies us
these things for our own good, and so it is profitable for us to lose this
voice, those prayers, and for what good turn: “For the best turn of the bed.”
And when I kiss her, the first and last of many, I taste her
orient pearl, desperate to think that desolation does begin to make a better
life, and for her, now, seeing her true love vanish. Let him forever go.
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