Her language carved a deep and winding wound
across your psyche. Strong with prayer, she hung
you by your tenuous will. She left you drawn
and quartered, with insinuations flung
like wet confetti tossed to celebrate
parades of sorrow, marches of regret.
Then I arrived, too little and too late
to halt the steady flow of harsh ferment.
To your deaf ears, I spoke with alien tongue
in phrases you refused to recognize,
in syntax set in futures, all hard-won,
while you spoke gently of my lustered eyes.
My words were complex babble to your mind.
Their lives were short, they flew like fireflies,
alive and glowing in a slip of time,
then dark and dead and worthless by sunrise.
We slept in restless nights, our bodies hot
with love and tangent passion. Twisted sheets
were adequate to stave off cold, but not
a deep misunderstanding of beliefs.
I spoke of resurrection, of the soul;
you said my skin was soft, my fragrance lush.
I asked for speed; your hands moved sweetly slow.
Your lack of urgency defied my rush.
You looked hard at the sky, saw only stars,
while I forged past your logic’s ken. You said
you saw no heaven, and I heard the bars
clang shut against our promise. Futures fled.
You spoke in tongues, your scientific creed
was nonsense to my ear. I’d lost my bet
that you would find more tolerance in need.
My intuition failed your intellect.
My trust in you, I know, was not misplaced
although I find your lack of faith too wry.
But there are things that neither of us faced.
When problems linger, somewhere there’s a lie.
Truth has identity, unlike belief,
discorporate and free from faith’s false crutch.
And only truth can foster true relief.
But I still miss your warmth, your voice, your touch.
