...it's been a long time... (aka 'those damn candles')

I took you so seriously,
that letter you wrote to me.
Your voice rose from a decade of times gone by
and my entire romantic history seeped from the raw pages
& soaked me in the nostalgic scent of old sweat & tears & breezes:
his fingers, her hair, his chest as I awoke embraced,
his anger as I fell asleep with my back turned.
Did your spite confirm all the digs from lovers past
I never wanted to believe?
Could you truly see my worst parts through
those years and miles?
And always you were one I trusted amidst
your 'delusions,' & sidestepping & understated profundity.
So your letter paused my being,
my whole life soaked through one moment, my breath hovered,
my eyes still, piercing the centerpoint of each love,
wondering.
This is what trust can do.
I don't allow it much anymore.
After all these years, after all the re-keying of my locks,
you reserved a secret passageway,
some door long forgotten,
left open all this time.
So you can imagine when you said the letter wasn't to me,
that it was meant for a recent lover during the bitter torrents of a breakup,
what had already blown through that open gateway.
And you can imagine the beautiful shock of hearing and believing
when you whispered through those open shutters,
"I love you. Your life is tremendous."

We Both had to Laugh

You stood in that doorway so angry, helplessly angry it seemed. We both had to laugh. The subtle curl of your lips gave me permission to transition stunned bewilderment into incredulous laughter. Like the little boy who wants to shame his mother, the one woman who will always be there. That seductive curiosity: can you control her? But the bigger question is: can you forgive her? Can you forgive the transgressions of your youth she couldn't control? And what about the ones she could? Ahh...so we see why when you lie by the riverside her darkened face rises from your dreams. And how I wish her face didn't turn into mine. Should I forgive you? Should I overlook this danger I'm never likely to escape? Your face rises from my dreams and I feel your hands slip about my waist. It's not enough to be held. Sometimes it's enough to be held.