Our Love
is akin to reading the language of the stars
or hearing God’s real name in a blinding,
piercing shriek. It is a wormhole,
death, and the reincarnation of a harijan.
I spend most days walking past it
as if to acknowledge the stranger
would make him real, and humming
clutters my head of its thoughts as I fail
to see the twinkling sky in its waxing
and waning glory.
Even so,
there are the moments I cannot ignore.
There are sighs filled with the immensity
of you, of fog within the valley pregnant
with rain, swirling between old buildings
dotting out the light. Musk and green seeds
and campfire and the fine, brown tendrils
of your hair are inescapable, are both
forever and never - wrapped up in
an external womb which I carry you
in protective, stealthy steps.
I whisper:
Live long enough to know the pain,
sing loud enough to hear the notes,
burn deep enough to know the want,
and always,
always
read the secret rhyme
within your own hymns.
- RPJ
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