and I say that if your lips, which I have loved, should touch another's, and your dear strong fingers clutch his heart, as mine in time not far away; if on another's face your sweet hair lay in such a silence as I know, or such great writhing words as, uttering overmuch, stand helplessly before the spirit at bay; if this should be, I say if this should be - you of my heart, send me a little word; that I may go unto him and take his hands, saying, "accept all happiness from me". Then shall I turn my face and hear one bird sing terribly afar in the lost lands.
I remember the suck of boots in mud; guttural, sexual, in those clandestine woods. I remember dying to cry out but throat-stuck with briers and stones, as your ruddy lips grew much ruddier. I remember falling, falling back into that tangled bed; a mesh of twigs. Deflowered like a virgin bride in the ground swell of spring. Underneath that deciduous canopy propped up with jagged scaffolding...
I am disconsolate without doubt, withered by our estranged, ever-changing love. Pressed to forget the torments that have been scattered throughout the divisions of my brain, only to languish in the name of lost intrepidity. Still I must trace the outline of your lips; frustrations come and go like clouds. A broken voice spills out of your eyes; your windows, and your words could keep me locked away forever, yet your actions would amend my soul.
Stumbling forlorn on the scopic path.
