The Fragile Seconds
What if we’re not
all meant to be
or not to be
Ophelias or Juliets.
Our beauty strewn
between the thorns
of haphazard roses
and deliberate water lilies
floating in vain.
What if, just what if
we were meant to live
in the fragile seconds
before climax.
When the want
has reached its peak
and there is no fall.
No knife to be plunged.
No one to let down.
No necks to be strung.
What if the lines weren’t
read. Families never knew
truths they couldn’t handle.
There was no messenger
spying forbidden lovers.
No juices plastered
against walls of lust
and hate doesn’t exist
where blood flows
and guts hang.
Where cruelty is balanced
by passion and grace.
The judges, gone.
Ashes, scattered
in every direction
where caution
is an unknown word.
Where rainy day
piggy banks have all
been broken. The coins
sorted, and still
I come rolling back
to the only place
in a world of unslit throats
where I can trace your face.
Your rough makes me red
and raw and I wake unbled
and undead, beneath
something gentle
that feels like some
special sort of death.
I sip the dark
of your kisses in coffee
and dream up another
life as a beta fish
who lives solo,
with only the faintest
memory of the constant
scent of fresh orchids
and cold fingertips
softly brushing
the river’s pulse.
