She was...

No, she wasn’t a dream;

She was a stream of breath
falling
down a spine

She was a taste—a tongue’s wonders
She was a sound—a rumble of lightning
She was a sight—a strike of thunder

She was a touch of glass
torn
along a fragile soul

She was a smell of daffodils
drowning
like a drunkard’s destiny

She was a kiss
too late to heal
the beatings
of a heart.


So again I say No
as you know
we have not yearned the right way yet.

I lust for love
to eliminate lust
for love

to thrive
in my mind
because
the organ in my chest
has become
just that—the organ
with 4 divisions
that she played
with her hands and feet
pulsing blood through my pipes
but blaring it all out religiously

I just hope
that two-faced phantom of my mind
can make up his mind
before it is time
for this opera
to begin.