Maybe in Paris

Love has no mother, no father...
He buries himself within himself
   Flew up so high the sun scorched him
Never thought such pain was possible
Plague days—we examine our skin for rashes
   panic over every cough
His fierce, opinionated and able lover, gone

What she gains always ebbs, dissipates
Then she cares nothing for the lover
   who once took her breath away
 Only the flimsiest membrane stays
Apart from their lust, real lovers don’t know
   what they want from each other
But they want to stay together

There are patterns that don’t change
Love’s neither beautiful nor good, says the sage
   It’s some hard-edged yearning in between
A powerful spirit that descends
We seek to keep our passions green
   I didn’t know that you could love so fiercely
and not get what you want

Love, like gold, keeps its color
no matter how hot the fire
   I forgot what normal sleep is
Jumbled panic beneath a cool and assured demeanor
Perhaps we’ll see each other again, babe,
   I yearn for that, her heart, her lust
maybe in Paris

– April 7, 2011 –