Parallel Lines
Dressed in desire for our cross-stitched trysts—
A weekend in your royal suite at some Mayfair hotel at ten,
some nestled campfire across constellations and crescentic gifts,
beaconed by your smile that was redolent of Joan Fontaine.
And your eyes—maple syrup bedewed on magnolia petals…
I couldn’t take my eyes off.
Your body—a maple wood cello, lewd and argued my seated mettles…
And I couldn’t keep my hands off.
Your friezes depicted you were born to wound the ones you touched, (as was I.)
and against the odds you healed me.
A reprise predicted we were sworn in to be ruined when the rational aftershock clutched and came in an aeropause tsunami.
(But negating it all appealed to me.)
We were too parallel to defy the laws of physics and fly in the face of fate.
However, once enamoured — being a remiss — gallantly we crossed the warning lines off the slate.
A lotus you were,
purveying serenity,
in this mud in a muddle (that some revere,)
in the midst of Chaos city.
We sang our hearts out to the drumming of the midnight rain,
on the magic harnessing skylight and star-crossed pane..
‘til all our strings broke free.
You sang, “Maybe, maybe, maybe…”
like Janis Joplin since you relished the irony.
I took the sheet from Doris Day,
and mirrored, Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps.. giving us seven years of bad luck merely in a minute or three.
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Unfortunate were we and our dearth of involvement in historically significant events.
Obstinate was the mirth with which we created several for our own use and contents;
around the world, being the self-regarding citizens of it, in a body painted trance—
Our personal chronicles of handmade, soul-relayed (made-bed) romance.
A love in a generation, one for the generations we were—
If only the things which were left unsaid.. we could hear.
If only the pride we borne could be given the chair.
If only our e̶l̶e̶c̶t̶r̶i̶c̶ nomadic souls could sit and compromise… (Hear, hear!)
You lost me when your love abdicated our home,
(warmly selfish,) on a cold summer night.
You see, I lost you when I sedated the love in my dome,
(calmly selfish,) and couldn’t treat you right.
“Communication is key” is such a modern tenet.
Old heads like us will fancy distancing ourselves when the going gets tough.
Pretend, self-isolate and deal with it.
And brush the shine of the diamond in Times New Rough.
For our emotions only bleed on the blankly staring and probing pages.
After all, we opt to circum(vent) our plights through these scribbled cages.
Now you’ve said goodbye, my Mayfair belle.
And I can’t even amend your why and this May farewell.
I can’t even hold you in my arms,
and thwart us from trading in harms.
Now what shall I do with these scorching feelings that I try to parry?
Extinguish them or ladle them in the torch and carry?
(O’ where have you stowed away the tantrums?
Ours could still be the sanctum.)
But since you can’t stay,
for your well-being I’ll pray.
And at best maybe you will carry me in your weathered heart,
for even as time goes by from mine you’ll never depart.
Maybe in another life, perhaps riding into a s̶u̶n̶ fate-lit backdrop, maybe in the cosmic chronicles of a less regal setting,
or perhaps even sketched through your keypad in a rife maybe when — lost in your favourite coffee shop — you find yourself reminiscing,
we could converge.. and be read amid the lines of your prose, poetry and art.
Perhaps in that merge we’ll be portrayed in favour of trading heart-to-heart.
