They told me not to speak of you aloud

What happens when a year has passed without a word, but the word returns without an idea, without a face?

This is

A passion beyond my eyes,

Beyond the haze of sense

(when they type, my fingers disappear;

They cannot speak of you again),

And my only hope forms on my lips:

My breath will find your breath

In ravishing darkness underneath the Saturn of the sky.

I write in darkness

(it’s not quick enough to catch the ever-meaning)

And the madness of the spoken word

Is heat atop my cheeks, the tremors screwing my hands.

I twist a strand beside my neck,

As if that can hide how readily

A passion has return –

It tumbled from my lips.

I am stranded, I am stranded

Between knowing what is right and whatever

Sends me spiralling (they wondered

Why I thought I was ill. Now look at

Me), through Heaven.

And back to my Earth when I bump on lights.

Yet, I have no need to stop

And watch what I say (I remember now:

They told me not to speak of you aloud).

Just one notion would calm me,

Even as the poems rush above my soul’s return;

Drench me, drive me, coax me out.

It’s the long-gone passion.

Another poem found my need and it will

Escape before it’s caught,

Scattered ash beneath my ears and feet.

The End

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