A Saturday Poem For Lovers

31 Mar

I say your name and it burns my tongue,
leaving a scar I cannot erase
no matter the pencil, which you prefer;
that old-fashioned writing utensil
trailing charcoal or graphite
that smudges the sentences you give me
to consume, devour, and I wonder
after all this time if things like
worn paper and love really matter
or if it is like a fire that flames up
bursts and destroys all that it had
once sparked, the dying embers and ash
yet again, a mark, a possibility of words
in dirt, in grey matter to shape, reform
to become the worlds that we can-
not construct in every house of our
being, which does not shelter our desires
does not yield to our demands nor breaks
for love; that the heart asks for.

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