Hibiscus Dreams

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It was

a fever state,

hot and delirious;

being in love.

 

Love was a febrile hallucination, a trick of the mind.

Lurid colors, vivid imagery, rich emotion,

desperate beauty;

a haunting vision

that can’t be unseen.

 

Our bodies were tumid fruit

that ripened

in the sultriness

of love’s summer.

We gorged ourselves on textures and tastes;

the enchanting sweetness of lust,

the decorous tartness

of impatient longing.

The sumptuous spice

of passionate encounters.

The bitter sourness of ugly hurts,

dark moments that crystallized

into insidious weeds

and took root in the space between us;

that gave the kiss of death

to our hibiscus dreams.

 

In the cool blue light

of nighttime,

I feel inside myself

for you,

caressing the empty spaces

where your memory lies;

teasing at the edges of loss,

touching the pleasure that remains.

 

I blossom endlessly with wanting,

love’s eternal flower,

red petaled,

bright and pretty,

subtly fragrant.

I am one

who dreams of you:

the bee

that stung me.

Before I Die

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Before I die, will I think

of making love

to you?

 

When I have swam

through the eternal sea

of life’s consciousness,

and endless memories are bubbling up

from murky depths,

will I run the fingers of my mind

over the faded photograph

of your eyes?

 

Will the scent of your skin

fill the intangible air

of my thoughts?

 

My love, I want to let you go.

 

But I may wish

to feel your lips on mine

one more time.

Please

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“Do I dare put the dream market on display?” — Anne Sexton

 

Please do not steal

my gilded words, carefully crafted,

from the tip of my heart’s pen, stained as it is

with the ink of my blood.

 

Please do not rip

my precious fluttering heart

out from the velvety folds of my delicately embroidered hope chest,

so innocently beating.

 

Please

do not dim

my small spark of radiant life,

vibrantly aglow,

effusive with love and agony,

my intrepid inner lantern

lighting me

along the path

of my soul.

 

 

Please.