Ten of swords

I know you do not love me

because I have been loved before

because I have felt the frustration,

the quiet desperation

that love carries in her uncompromising jar.

It beats against the glass -

with hard wings, threatening to take the sky

threatening to swallow the moon.

I know you do not love me

because there is a fight in love

she knows what she believes in

like the Empress – who uncompromisingly

suckles her child at her large breast,

whose eyes threaten to eclipse the universe,

as she plays with all of its light.

I know you cannot love me

because there is no self in love

no Ego, no contention.

No craving of another touch, word, body -

even on the coldest, lonliest night.

You are all hands and tongue and want.

Love is a prayer – an invocation;

it is you seeing me within you and reaching for me

Uncompromisingly.

I know you do not love me

 - because you leave me when you could stay.

It does not seem to worry you

That I am cold.

It was warm outside your house.I was wrapped in her winter jacket

-      red wool that held me unobtrusively.

Larger than I was, it didn’t occur to me that safety was in

That largeness.  You saw me through your bedroom window. 

You would later tell me that mine was the only face you saw. That you loved my complexion.

It didn’t occur to me that I was simple

-  easy to navigate,

or that it would be your complexion

that would not let me love you. 

I stood at your door for a long time. I knew you were watching me from your bedroom window.

It was cold, and you seemed far away-         

but I was warm, and I didn’t think to knock.

I didn’t think you would let me wait for you in the snow. 

Days later, you came to your door. I had built a small town on your front steps.

I was happy       

 -         I hadn’t expected you to come.

But it hadn’t occurred to me to leave. 

We stood at your door. You asked for my jacket.

I gave it to you, without a thought.

I remember feeling smaller, a little less whole.  

     -         but you looked bigger than me.

You didn’t ask me in. 

Days later, I stepped into your house. My small hands were blue, my small lips were grey.

But I still reached for you, smiling at your smile.

It didn’t occur to me that it didn’t reach your eyes. 

 I spent days looking for a corner of your house That I could call my own. You stayed in your bedroom. I know you knew I was there    

     -      you would call out to me every few days

To make sure I hadn’t left. 

 It didn’t occur to me that you had left my jacket out in the snow. 

It was only after many days That you came down to find me-        

  I had forgotten you were in the house.

But I had agreed to love you anyway. 

You held me for a minute, it was the first time you touched me.

 I thought you would take me up to your bedroom. It didn’t occur to me that there had been-     

     someone else up there with you. 

You told me that you loved me.  And that you would miss me. 

We sat facing one another for days.You kept one hand on mine and the other one on-   

       the door. 

It looked so cold outside. I didn’t know how I had ever been outside your house. 

And so I stepped out.And picked up her jacket.

 I felt warmer then. Looking into your bedroom window. 

Than I had for days. 

Without the pretense of abandon

Let me hold you in my hands. 

Apart from these seldom kisses

There is nothing to hold me to you.

In an instance, you could leave me.

In an instance, I could be alone. 

 Are you worth a lingering happiness?

Are you made of stars?

For you, I have forgone the pieces

That I used to adjust my frame.

All of your heart

Is not worth

All of your confusion. 

What does it mean that you come to me in seldom moments? 

That you seek my warmth when you feel the chill of isolation? 

Nothing seems still –

Not this expansive night, with her never-ending vicissitude.

The stars are formless. Small warriors.

Barren, in their impenetrable fortress of black.

Agile with loneliness.

Clouds tumble and graze – small white cows imprinted clumsily, temporarily.

The air is dry and hoary.

Crushing in its heavy frailty.

Layered, incapacitated – the sky struggles aimlessly.

White night, white moon.

Held in the flask of ocean that reflectively performs its solitary dance.

It seems that nothing is still -

Not even you.

How little you have affected me. Affectation is an art. A highly rigorous, clearly delineated display Of controlled body movements – the arch of the back, the curl of a hip. It is a dance that can never be taught – for it has no teacher. Nothing can come from nothing. Graceless and plebian, soaring and elemental – it bolts all emotion to the bone and grinds against the skin. A paste of sorrow. A paste of ash. Waxy and plural in its enigmatic accusation of betrayal and guilt. Its complete lack of faith. Words without the walls of the mouth to contain them. No rooms, no confinement. It confuses me – spans my lifetime in its impossible frailty. Its unwillingness to break. Yet there is none of that here. Disjointed and ethereal, I am painfully conscious of my predictability. My impervious heart – placid and stable. My unwilling body. My immovable mind. Perhaps this is true love.

I am much like a child.

That watches the object of its affection.

From a little way off.

Easily distracted

By the colors of the day

And the noises near at hand.

Yet somehow

Always returning,

To the image of

your Face.

It took one dance. 

I know nothing of you. No truth, no lies. Nothing comes from nothing. You seem to be so very still in this picture. 

All of me in one dance. 

I am quiet now. Everything lies between us.

I must seem so very small in your arms. 

We absconded ourselves

In one dance. 

Things change when your heart beats

To the beat

Of another. 

It only took a dance. 

No periphery, no boundary.

No judgement, no vexation. 

With love, 

You taught me how to dance.

Apparently, the moon is a little brighter than usual tonight.

I hang my head on your sleeve, as you speak of subtle things.

Satiated – we seem so happy.

We must seem so complete.

Your voice is illusory, draped in the night – it covers me.

I hang my head on your sleeve, as you speak of irrelevant things.

Who would have thought this was all we could ever be?

This night, this table, this conversation, this warmth.

You hide behind your words, and I do not come looking.

I am tired.

I do not want you if you cannot want me.

We are role-playing.

 You the lover, I the loved.

You the confused, I the pacifier.

I will let your words wash over me, break over me.

The world will not watch forever – there will be much time to leave.

There will be time to turn you back.

I will enjoy you tonight;

because the moon is a little brighter than usual. 

Incarcerated by the – (ohsovivid!) memory of your large, brown

smile, I lie on my back in the grass on this hill by the lake – where I last saw you.

You were all hands and mouth and manner of brazen as you listened (semi) attentively to all the things she seemed to be saying. Your eyes were on fire, dancing, spinning her (seamless) stories into something – more.

I watched your fingers play a game with her coy skin – hide and seek. Cowboys and Indians (dot). Does she want me, does she – knotting her hair casually, tugging insistently on the things she would not say.

Barely audible – you swam rivers in her confusion. I think you enjoyed it – her reluctance, the twisting of her limbs from your invasive aggressions. The more she ran, the more you went seeking, between the banks of her toes and the hollow of her neck.

I watched as you found me there. Hidden in her pores – dark secret. In the corners of her silences, in the almond eyes. The more you ran, the more I came seeking – pulling myself through the silty mesh of her hair, the considerable cocoon of her heart.