So we stand again.
To heal to mend
Take out the quail feather from your journal,
And write our story anew.
Maybe, our steps will falter,
Surely there will be boulders in our way.
But we’ll get past it,
By faith, through grace.
Together we’ll baptize in the stream,
That flows through the Himalayas.
We’ll find salvation,
In each others’ arms.
Would you read me, Bukowski?
I’ll tell you what vertigo feels like,
As the stream will shift beneath us.
I’ll let you make fire.
I’ll let you keep me warm.
Will you let me paint the dawn-sky scarlet?
Or will you reprimand it like last time?
Maybe you’ll ask me to paint it sapphire at night?
We will visit,
The necropolis of lovers.
We will honor our dead.
Not Romeo and Juliet my dear,
No, not them.
But the ones whose stories,
The ones who never met.
The ones who crossed oceans together.
The ones who killed for each other.
The ones this world calls crazy.
The celestial ones.
I will make a wreath of dried sage,
I’ll make one from lavenders.
Dig us a grave.
Hold me in your arms.
Pat my hair.
Rock me to sleep,
Sing me the lullaby your mother sang for you.
The Obsidian gravestone,
Will tell our story:
The tender ones, sleep here together, forever!