the glass violin

we were twin flames
surging into uncontrollable fire

a great abyss of time

we walked there seeing but not seen
until you found a bridge of air
reigniting, we swam in heady
bliss that only love interrupted knows
–memory that is neverfar and leaves
all life behindahead outcast
in perfection
we were
entranced by language that wove
among us allegro furioso hearing
faintly strains of the symphony living beyond us
played on glass instruments
a rare unscripted composition
composed beyond us when old souls reunite
existing as eternally and mysteriously as angels
as lovers sing silently bows drawn across strings
in touches and kisses and breathing
there is only a knowing and
in that Eden we were celebrated liberated
freedom unveiled herself in this new light
and you became no longer
ashamed of your nakedness

which I held

tenderly as a butterfly alights upon fingers touching carefully
wings lest feathers are lost
while you spoke of beauty in
your soft touches playing upon my face drawing
forth bold timbres that only cellos know
you sang
of loving me like an undiscovered country
you never knew there in spontaneous
evenings your love words
orchestrated in tender silence the
harmony for a symphony unlived then lived


in the pause of a breath intaken sharply a glass violin shattering
cutting severing slicing


there is no coda
yet i still hear your song of me softly
in the solitary night when your love words
in blue ink on white pages sing
themselves to me harsh words the casualties
i cannot bury
i float on knife grey seas carrying me to new horizons
forever transformed beautifully
the symphony plays on


To love is good, too: love being difficult.

For one human being to love another: that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation.
For this reason young people, who are beginners in everything, cannot yet know love: they have to learn it. With their whole being, with all their forces, gathered close about their lonely, timid, upward-beating heart, they must learn to love. But learning-time is always a long, secluded time, and so loving, for a long while ahead and far on into life, is–solitude, intensified and deepened loneness for him who loves. Love is at first not anything that means merging, giving over, and uniting with another (for what would a union be of something unclarified and unfinished, still subordinate–?), it is a high inducement to the individual to ripen, to become something in himself for another’s sake, it is a great exacting claim upon him, something that chooses him out and calls him to vast things. —Rainer Maria Rilke


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