he’d come in the afternoon she always left the door open was that a metaphor with poets you never know she ‘d be in the kitchen cooking through their stomach love comes she liked to see him eat and barefeet too what did that mean was that another metaphor she’d tell him i’m on fire an hour before you come while in the background the gypsy sang of love of love of love as gypsies do and it was sad in the lowering violet light she had flowers around the lamp so it looked pretty oh she’s a fool and he loves her he would gently hold and kiss her they are so careful these two with this feeling they have they know it is love they have had it before with others and watched it die slow death sometimes sometimes mangled and a few were accidental they want these simple things they do to last they touch they love they laugh hold each other in comfort through the night making the darkness sweet inventing names for each other so they can then float away on their dreams these nights are like that to love is its own reward she says but perhaps this is not at all love but what else could it be besides they can call it love if that’s their own sweet will after all a rose is a rose is a rose it’s all a matter of how you fit in the sky but isn’t it amazing that burned and charred as they have been their hearts are so smooth and open sometimes love is not metaphorical and miracle is not just the name of a street somewhere in a country
michèle voltaire marcelin
This entry was posted on Friday, January 2nd, 2009 at 10:59 am. It is filed under poetry and tagged with heart, kiss, laugh, love, metaphor poem, miracle poem, passion, relationship, rose, sensual, sky, tenderness, touch. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.
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