Sutileza de expresión en ella me inspira
Mientras da golpes expertos a las castañetas
Sincronizada su tarea con su casi sonrisa
Tiempo a paso perfecto con truenos del guitarrista
El delicado baile entre ellos me quita la pena
Como la delicada flor que tapa su oreja
I have tried to put into words, as efficiently and concisely what I would say if ever asked
I believe in forever. I believe in the promise
I do not want to disqualify myself from seeing paradise
If I did go through with the thoughts that override, I would be disqualified
Wrecked would be the hope to taste what a true friendship would be with you
If because my hope is anchored by this, I happened to be recused
I can live with that, but not with the thought that I may have made you subject for execution
I will not approach, unless asked. I will not gaze upon you, unless given permission
I will wait for a million years, if that is what it takes, for the perfect conditions
This is what I would say:
I want to be a perfect friend to you some day
How obediently you turned to me when I called your name gently but firmly. Your steps did not falter as your course they did alter, on cue, so that I again could be face to face with you
I needed a reason, a ruse, an excuse for my summon, so I asked about a friend in common, I hadn’t seen for a while
And as you responded with your smile, which I allege is only for me, I was able to focus on the true cause of my entreaty
A green I had never seen, but which is now my favorite shade of green. I remember musing as you were yet speaking, how I would sacrifice my right index finger, to just once feel the texture of your drab green sweater
The weather changed like a backdrop exchanged with black for white, allowing renewed appreciation of the foreground subject matter.
Like the sun positioned exactly opposite of where it had been when the picture was taken of you wearing a pensive face, motionless, punctuated by your tomato red sweater.
The seasons change making our spirit seem more stark, more naked, though remaining the same.
Robbed of our crutch, our pill, the transition in our d.n.a., bereft and seething; rogue and renegade.
No spring, no autumn, making the thorn we bear throb with greater magnitude, punctuated by the bitter backdrop of cold, dark, night.
A room full of people, yet aware of only one spirit. The tilt of the hips, the folding of the arms, the Concealing of the face, doubly by the black mane, And orientation; exactly opposed to my position at Any point on the compass.
It is a fragile vessel sacrificed on the altar
Of the insidious delicateness required to revive her,
But which seems beyond all lumbering humanness.
Yet the tribute is offered over and over
Insisting that we are competent heart holders,
Knowing that these urges exist, to be expressed, by only us.
I beg for
One little drop
Of news from
What is not tinted with you
Is tainted with the
Ebb and flow of this
World’s mechanized rust
Which causes me to blush
Upon the thought of
A Show-and-Tell session
With God and his angles
Which excise no tribute
To elegance or order
Upon petroleum wheels
We are witness
To the carnage system decreed
By a deity who is appeased only
When it’s pilgrims achieve
Abandoned concrete yards
With oxidized apparatuses
To knock down our
Red chambers two notches
While we wish away civilization
Which capsized just outside
The civil circle
Which inside is tinted with
Rose and yellow
And the contrast of
Black against white
And with the
breath of you
Yet the snare
Just the same