Twin Flames

Your heart threads through my own
in a time of aubades giving promise
to a mercy in the eternal yearning.

Such wavelengths we’ve crossed
through time fire-scorched and blue
in the tumbling of sacred bones.

We glide the surface of everything
like two swans entwined in the hours,
wary of nothing but the spires aflame.

If I am at all, I am the deep sunrise
that colors your halo and wills a bond
for a future that dares to escape us,
luring the sentient stars to inferno.

In the darkness we can still see
each other gleaming in the distances.
Whether fate exists or not here,
our bodies connect like rivers.

Poised to be as beautiful as the light
that graces the garden when we wake,
we do our best to outlive the cold
and go fearless into the dark night
of the soul in its endless trials of love.

Karmics we’ll shed like widow leaves
from the coattails of a wind’s fury
and in the trees the stars will gather
to uphold serenity through the war
of our sacred union tied to pulse.

My lover who weaves lace for me
as I tear your darkness from the vein
to make love and bear the ember—
do you recognize this old passion?

Nothing but I has reached you
in soul-light and secret harmony.
Don’t you think that is something
worth praying for, too?

In the north and in the south
of divine timing’s detriment,
I cannot unroot from your side.

You see, the only wish of my life
has been to find you, again and again,
so that may we be imperial…

As promised by the light
that birthed us long before
we laid eyes on each other.

Empress of Longing

Blessed in thorns from ankle to crown,
I have been groomed a relic of patience
where in my hands I must hold captive the sun
to keep the floundering moon at bay.
My tears telling of the untold know no rest
and what is gold adorned on my wrists—
my neck, my chest—is also sanctified.
Sunlit and ancient; no root to grow from
anymore in the ballroom of dissonance.
From a distance in which I cannot embrace you,
I grow apart from myself as the marble and vein.
I elude you to keep the petals from the embers
and embody the pain awaiting me at the surface
of this illustrious palace filled with smoke.
The mortal ruby burned at the left of me,
bitterly famished of love as your own, beacons
for the crows and all the doves come morning.
My legacy at the hollow of this is a tolling bell—
a chime of the sorrow in hope we’ve lost alone
so that wisdom bestows us with my colors,
charitable and haloed in the light of truth.
My reflection, my somber life, keeps me ruling
this far greater sphere—falling from you,
falling from the stars that hold no keeper.
Despicable to be anything but fruitful.
Shall a girl be no woman wanting in the after-rite?
Shall the resounding ocean crash no wave?
Outcast I am inside the cursed ravines of my body.
I cannot tend to the bleeding, I can only
unburden and conceal the burst of my own want
to keep stoic, though I heed for all living things
that hold their blemished hands out to me.
Like this I am forced to raze the ache of you—
you who binds my eyes in the thickening.
You must know why the stars taught me to rule like this,
to permit no heartbeat near enough to ensnare me
any more than my own in this sundering…
How I have become a landslide of roses de-thorned.
Secretly reaping my fate, fragrant for you
in sleep, I tell no one.

Wasteland

There is something in the consolation
of your company through the storms of my life
that alters the alchemy of my being.
Such blood we rush in each other, after all,
everlasting as a flower pressed to pages
or a simplicity of comfort that undermines the pain.
Heartfelt and sterling, I attract to you
like a lightship to the crude and broken,
though the clouds gather with a quickness
to blot out the light and commit to thunder.
Your name, suddenly: cayenne in my throat—
godless and fiery, or manic and shoreless.
That I should run to you and all your falling towers,
charred and moonlit, is a madness of choice.
Your breath on my neck a purgatory of orisons
I’ve lost in the torment of your vanishing love.
I fear I cannot pray us through the journey,
through the uneven earth meant for us, so I dream
never again to find myself nurturing your wasteland
or place home in the shallows of your recluse eyes
that have cast me away to broken places
without fail, where again you arrive threadbare in the rain—
a lonely bird casting dreams without me,
peering into my windowsill with tattered feathers.
I carry waves of silence through the sadness
of never being able to shoo you away
when you and God both know all too well
I am nothing but a weathered stone of love for you.

Against the January Dawn

There is not much I need to confess to you these days.
You see, in the mornings now I wake with no tears
dried in the corners of my eyes, salty down my cheeks.
The windows frost with snowflakes, though I hardly shiver.
On the radio someone sings a joyless tune I know you’d love,
but I cannot remember what that feeling means anymore.
In all my letters now, the night-blooms swirl away
as if I am merely awakening from a bad dream
that never once belonged to me.

There is a kiss I feel now at my shoulder blades
from a lover I’ve taken within wholeheartedly.
It is not a blackness, it is not a blueness, nor a faithless sky.
It is the air of peacefulness as a flower blooms to life
after you’ve watered it attentively, never too much.
It is the steam rising from my coffee this cold morning
and the ink that firmly compels me to remain here,
gathering a bouquet of clovers to my heart
against the January dawn.