An autumn chill creeps over lazy windowsills,
And cuddles up next to me,
Blankets snuggle in for warmth,
While I catch a faint scent
Of your lips, on the sheets,
And remember the last time
You were here, on a business deal
Of different
Vested interests:
You for the sex, me…
For that too.
But also to fleece
Intimacy from ebbing affection,
My fingers trace mountain ranges of skin,
As I watch the feelings of affection in consciousness
Slowly drift away
With the pain of rejection,
All those moments are
Now images, depleted of time,
Of the rose garden, your dog
Digging holes,
Or the conversation of our disparate futures,
“I want children,
A husband…
And you?”
“I don’t know.”
Love encompasses the tumultuous waves
Of swooning hearts,
But it’s aftershocks too,
Lonely feet pacing streets,
Strung along
By the indecipherable Why?
The shadows of motivations
Cast along the cave walls of lovers,
The crackling embers of rationalizations,
Among the burning flames of affection,
Until,
Something simply breaks,
The immutable glacial shifts
Of human hearts.
It’s been too long since you were kind,
And all my love
Has suffocated in that time,
It’s a nonverbal acceptance,
An unchosen distance,
It’s the lack of any thought
About you,
In the fire of consciousness,
Until,
On early autumn Sundays,
The scent of your lips spurs that night,
I cooked risotto and fish
Amidst murky clouds of candles,
And you came across my bed,
A back writhing and curling before collapse,
A mess of grins and smiles and love,
Dispersed,
By an autumn chill.
The rising of feet onto porcelain tile,
The scrape of razors against flesh,
Thoughts floating on,
To the day’s errands, drinks with friends,
A perfunctory bus ride where I admire
The Williamette, it’s backdrop of humble
Skycrapers.
I would have to relive your story on repeat,
Inside my own mind,
To remain enraptured by your emerald eyes,
To pine for your scent,
A circular sermon repeating,
Eclipsing the present,
So I let it go. Think about something
Else,
And the embers of affection
Fade,
Become distant echo’s of another lover
Lost to lust and time,
And the way we wish our lives to be.
Donovan James is a writer, musician, and cat enthusiast. He is still an idealist, despite a ravaging cynicism. He believes that the money and effort allocated to war and fear should be used to feed, shelter, and educate the poor, no human being excluded. His work has appeared in Commonline Journal, and Curious Apes, and has appeared onstage in Monkey With A Hat On, a Portland theater company. He’s also the author of the poetry collection “Saudade.”
Leave a Reply