And in the end I think
we will find that
we have made of
our relinquished solitude
a recognizable grace,

a kiss carried home
by desert winds,

the colors of thirst
reflected on an oasis,

the mystique of fall
dancing with the last
resilient roses—

that we have exchanged
the frugal peace
within our old cocoons
for the brilliance
of this mad world,
for flight
that would never
need to be borrowed

that we are two sides
of one conversation:
about being flawed
and being music

Ballad for Easy Dreaming

I want to recreate you
like a beauty to be consumed.
I want to break you down like a theorem
and hold the smaller pieces of your burning truth
in my hands like the debris of a meteorite,
watch the passage of light-years
reenacted along their edges
as they catch the sun.
I want to cheat on your nights
and write confessions in places
that time hardly ever touches,
teach your solemn dusk to bend around
the patient wait that bears the lyrics
to what makes the hours spent with you so pure.
I want to cover you with gazes,
from adoring eyes that refuse to be tired,
that open to another world when I go to sleep,
that see the future as a love song
playing at starboard in an ocean liner
that defines the impeccably white horizon.

Ars Amatoria and Passion Tea

You’ve instilled in me the beating
of an otherworldly heart,
a bloom of moorland heather among
the vineyards of my melancholy,
the ordinaryness of urban survival
that tantalizes the nurtured aches
in those for whom freedom is
but an echo of a symbol of a fable,
a faraway dream,
a dizzying height falling from which
may as well be worse than
confronting death itself.
My winged archetype,
verse of Sufi poetry tracing
ardent nights on the curve of my hip,
you are inner fire, the will of a seed
to spring to life and flourish
and make the sun proud.
I wear my soul on the outside
sometimes, to flaunt the colors
you’ve taught my eyes to reap
stories of faith from, to claim truths
that are too hot for many
bare hands to touch.
I have become you from loving you.
I have given birth to the sky.
My finiteness lies convalescing,
wrapped in your redolent,
someday-tinted light.

Azure and Softly Spoken

You are the touch of purple
to my blue symphony,
the drops of moonlight
dissolved in my sunset sky.
You are portents of the future
gilded in familiar warmth
and the rewriting of the impossible.
You are my reminder for believing,
for finding what’s lost
and for reaching inside of me
for things that bloom
and blaze trails that wind
around the stars.

Infinity as a Second Language

My heart has never been here before,
so far away from the place
where we started.
Diamonds and spoken vows but
blurs of pages we know by heart
now buried in the brunt of years
we’ve built on top of them.
Our lives have become intertwined
to the point of our mornings
breathing in rhyme,
and these daily motions
are lace so draped around
every available inch of stillness
that sunlight arrives
in intricate silhouettes on the walls
that have been privy
to our voices of discord
and faithfully softened with
brushstrokes of peace.

We are not the same souls that first loved,
my brokenness grafted
into your sheltering,
your roughness soldered
to the verse of my song
that is muse to the night.
The tougher layers that won’t bend
have fallen away, and we don’t miss them.
But tell me, do my kisses still
taste like potent secrets,
do our bodies still
finish each other’s sentences?
Do rumors of whirlwinds still brew
where I touch you, or
does that side of love change too?
Is there a name for passion
that is not fire,
and will it still know us now
that our shared existence
is no longer patterned after
the feeling of falling?