Scratchy vinyl

 

Shady lanes,

love's first embrace

under

pale moonlight

hearts raced,

and I felt at one.

But was I one

or were we two,

not together in tune,

Just

a mismatched

instrumentation,

a misplayed harmony

on scratchy vinyl,

a recreation of something,

that couldn't be called final.

A tribute act,

the notes played right,

but the passion was

a fire that couldn't

take light.

 

Hotel rooms

and hidden spaces,

anywhere we could taste

the intimate fruits

of love's trees, but the feelings

never sang like

the birds in those leaves.

For the fruit was sour

and nothing could

make it sweet. For love wasn't

just a fruit you eat,

but a life, a story

of shared devotion,

shared views over shared oceans.

 

And in those memories,

messy bedroom scenes,

places dreams went to die.

And I sigh, for my heart

was untouched by your

melody—a piano played off-key,

a misplaced note

ruining the orchestration

of you and me.

 

Cemetery gates.

As love dies away,

going through motions

trying to catch emotions,

but no feelings sing

when it isn't love

but a skin feeling.

 

And my love is a galaxy

where we can fly,

on the waves of

a symphony,

a choir,

not a beat-up

old tambourine,

left in the roadside gutter.

We can soar

Higher

and feel every ringing sound

the universe is granting.

Because love.

Love is blinding.

But oh so enlightening.