Your childhood friend dropped off home,
And the moon I see now, in my late twenties
Is the same moon I saw
when i was barely eighteen:
A gleaming, glowing, glistening
Woman's face, guiding, humming a song
I may never hear.
Then I was alone, afraid and hopeful.
Now i am unalone unafraid
And full of possibility,
Achievement,
Life.
It would be difficult to describe this but
Let me try, at least:
This evening I fell in love with you
All over again, my love.
And the song playing in thebackground
Wasn't the only thing causing it;
This is not the kind of love
That requires me to be dumb.
I wanted to tell you,
I tried over and over to get it right
And each heartache leads to another, and an echo of the first.
I'd love to be dishonest here
But I can't - poetry prevents any pestering--except on minor manipulations of words.
My reality is
I am safe in your arms.
I am safe when you drive me.
I am safe with these thoughts of you.
Whether they are loud or quietly sit in my head.
What was uttered in perhaps
Spontanaeity sounds like
The only thing that could give me
Butterflies that flutter within me,
And not
At the Cockrell.
We havent even seen them there yet,
The butterflies,
And when we do,
It will be an official night of the owl butterflies,
And whatever i see around me
Fluttering
With your hand in mine
Or close behind
Will be the everything on my insides,
And
This poem
the
lepidoptery.
Oh, I swear it.
And still, here driving,
Now your breathing more
My zen than my own steady pulse:
That moon that
Watches
Waits
Maternally,
With ambient patience
That denies any form of neglect
That years of still, quiet hanging over,
At a distance, otherwise
Could conclude.
My moon, my mother,
My man
My whoa-
Man.
All in one night,
Fluttering.
Erika
