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Masterpiece
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Masterpiece  If we had nothing to prove to each other but love, we would have spent all afternoon at the window, observing the firmament shed its chroma into the tender embrace of night. I would have held your hand and brought it to my lips to reassure our patience on its journey into seamless silhouettes. But the formalities of passion intervened, and we were enlisted to exercise the chartered ritual. Anxious and expedient, suspending our breath and yielding to gentle exhalations that echoed among the chambers of worship. You held me close with your thirst. I caressed your skin with my hunger. We killed off mistakes, bad decisions, and past indiscretions one by one, making space for the possibilities of new ones. Irreverent in our persecution, convinced in our courage. We diminished the tyranny of seduction by ignoring our fears but seduced instead the charity of vacillation by synthesizing our bodies. When the darkness shattered into rose petals I knelt to kiss your feet. An eternal twilight glimmered in mutable brevity. I remembered quickly how and why I fell in love with you years ago in another long-lost world. If ever I knew a masterpiece, it profoundly occupied my heart. Whatever cosmic impetus allowed for this occasion, I sensed it sitting there in the corner embroidering our simple chains and needling temptation. Each desire and stitch assumed a role and a place among the dust and stars. They built castles in your name, but you would not observe the architecture. Pilgrims came to visit, but you would not grant quarter to the weary travelers. Ascetics wept, but you would not dry their tears. Priests divined their scriptures, but you would not read their proverbs. You only fastened the chains of ministration to the poor, solemn lover in me, who honored the ceremonial surrender between the sweat and the weight of circumstantial salvation. And soon you would forget me. Only a would-be poet could ruin such momentum with his embellishments of grandeur. But his heart remains genuine in its whimsy and longing. Its glow and fascination remain eloquent. I was content to beg at the clinic of your thighs. You welcomed me into the majestic palace between your legs and revealed my poverty at its doorsteps. If we were summoned to fill the ether, we did so with lust and compassion. And filled the space in between with misgivings. Misgivings we wanted so badly to outlast. And soon the poetry and prose were only mere associations fringed in bitterness, focused in pain, and glorified through memories in a minor key. I think of all that misappropriated love I had invested in doomed, one-sided romances. They conducted movements inside me once. But those sonatas had only served as segues for this impressive orchestral suite. And biting your lip the overture concluded. When both your mouths edge in froth, I do what I am told. Maestro, raise the baton. Turn this capriccio into an adagio to initiate her aria in vibrato. Send a glissando into the coda of kisses. When my muse crawls to me and asks to be bound at the wrists and ankles, I do what I am told. Maestro, commence the reprise up-tempo. If ever I knew a masterpiece, it confessed its own limitations and insecurities. As you speak of bygone beauty, misplaced age, and disordered emotions, I want to subpoena the sky and the oceans to testify against you. Your breasts appear as fallen sparrows, their bellies upturned and breathing slowly. The chaos of your hair on my<b> pillow </font></b>like scattered autumn leaves under shadow. The smooth dunes of your abdomen guided by the gentle breeze from my lips. Your eyes like a trembling rhyme of dark copper pebbles skipped across an intimate pond. Sometimes when it’s silent and I close my eyes, I can feel the phantom sensations of those lips on mine and those eyes narrowing down the vulnerability in my face. If we warranted such torture, we made good on the promise of madness that our bodies and souls designed in the song’s composition. In the passionate, filthy deliciousness and time-dissolving power of our embraces, there was no separation of the sacred and the profane. There was no spirit, there was no flesh. And there was no conflict. And in the morning of pale spring we buried the tree of good and evil in the shadows and cast off our tyrannical shackles of decency to cultivate true love. If ever I knew a masterpiece, it came to me as I lay gasping against a cloud, broken at the knees and back by the disenchanted rebels, too weary to fight off the avolition. I was so afraid to lose you. So loss is just what you gave me. Without hesitation you finished the job as I knelt and bowed my head. Now weeks gone by. Acedia is my only companion. The poison lingers in our veins when we withdraw to the silence of discord. And on my tongue the taste of ash in the air as the smoke pursues my fixed gaze on the decayed sunset. With nothing to prove but solitude, I stand at the window all day to watch the sky turn from blue to black and the scattered clouds from white to gray. And I think of how it all went down. And I think of what I meant to your own self-discovery. When you speak to me no more, I do what I am told. The tired, mumbled curses fade, and a chorus of invalid angels descends to rattle their fists and chant incantations to you. And love discovers that it is much more at peace when it forgets the way we touched. --written April 2018 |
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