In Time and Remembered.

Some time mid-day, we laid together, braided up like a piece of old rope,
and before you fell asleep,
your hair fell
there, across your forehead.
I swept it away,
as I always do,
but when I revealed
the skin beneath,
I saw somebody new.
Or old.
Ancient, yes.
The shadow of a man
you once were, some
thousand years ago.

His breathing was slow
and deep,
his beard the same fierce black,
that breath...
the breath I know
and that still stops me fast...
it came, in the same rhythm as yours.

And I looked at him
and some ghost within me stirred...
as if this beautifully familiar stranger
brought out the woman
I may have been some
thousand years ago.

We've been in love
so heavily in love,
over how many lifetimes,
I wonder?

Does it grow deeper?

Do I know you better now?
Is it so easy
and so,
so astronomically much
because we've gone through this
so many times before?

Did we have our lifetime of young love?
Quarreling and licking and throwing
things around like
mad little flames?
Did we shout in glee
into one another's faces,
kissing each scar,
draining the world
in-between, and
praying for a howling night that
wouldn't ever,
ever end?

Did we have our lifetime of comfortable love?
Easy and bored and
so well understood, secure,
warm?
Did we float along
around well-tended
tulips
and bustling tomatoes,
grandchildren underfoot
and white sheets
catching the winds
we were then so
familiar with?

Where are we now?
Where else can we go?

I can feel the sky
gaping open wide,
cracked and waiting,
inviting both you and I
to find what lies beyond,
not just for the world we know,
but for the love we know.

The great heavy
and blissful beyond...
My love.
My love.
My love.

A Lost Sword.

You were there, in an old friend's house, a sabre of a man among a room full of overstuffed chairs and gem-colored pillows. On all fours, you were crawling over the wood floorboards, picking up small pieces of dust and placing them tenderly in a pouch strung around your neck. Your hands were black, and you told me the story of every bit of dust: "This one has seen more moons than any man alive, Queen." "And this one hails all the way from the Edge, carried here on the back of a brave little sparrow." "This one has war wounds, you see, there? So many tales to tell and no voice loud enough to be heard..."

A wind came whispering down the hallway, disturbing nothing but your mop of jet black hair. You were coaled to the elbows by the time you finished, smiling and slick with sweat. I laughed and told you to shower, but you came to me, gliding across the floor, and snaked your arms around my waist. I could smell the salt of you, and dust, but when you kissed me, your tongue was like honey in my mouth. We melted. Your shirt was off, your body steaming in the air. Your teeth found my ears, neck, breasts. We made love against moss-colored paint, our bodies leaving sweet, sticky imprints on the wall. You knelt and laced your arms around my thighs, looking up at me as I touched you gently on each shoulder. After you traced some shape into my belly, you engulfed me.

When we finished, you stared at me, your hands still warm, roaming. I tried to say something, but only an empty breeze came out my open mouth. You watched my neck intently, dirty and smudged from the black of your hands. "Windthroat," you said softly, eyeing me with a grin. You walked to the bathroom and began filling the tub. When I came in, you were already laying in the water, which was emitting a brilliant, golden light. The small room filled with it, and was thick with syrupy clouds of heat. Your eyes were closed, black lashes beaded with water. Even through the gold, your skin glowed milky white.

I watched you for a long time, the tears lost in the dew on my face. I wept, realizing we were too young to know such magic forever.