The Velvet Virgin

With ashram bells and roots that spell, what little could go a long way.

I know of the dear that spent her life here and why she loved those chimes

How all she knew were the looks of me, all i saw of her were the sun

This honesty they say, were of lips that convey, I will be going soon

For a trip to the veil, a spindle, a tale, more time becoming inure.

What is love for, unrequited, she was sure, she’d never want one more

To wait again would be a sin; needing something worth growing toward.

Now vines and weeds and silent trees bedeck this sweet girls place

I am not unwritten still.

I wanted to watch my love for you wither

the remains of it chip away from my body like the bark of a tree

To wash you clean away from me each time I took a shower

To repaint you in every picture just to sit, knowing you could leave

But you would never give this to me

As my voice became the sound for which you would smother yourself with

I feared you knew not growth and neither the love of adoration

Why you would not let me live upon the mind concerns me

Their summons only liken another dubious attack.

Coat your arms in heartache, make rain on the edge of the bed,

Remember the sting of sisterhood, unfurl the angry hands.

Make confetti of the confusion, dust of what was lack,

Insomnia is a child;

I wait here for you

Insomnia is the ring of our wedding bell;

I wait here for you

Insomnia is a familiar face;

I wait here for you

Insomnia is the billowing shade of a tree;

I wait here for you

Insomnia is the break of dawn, the hush of sheets,

the crushing gravel of monotony,

hurried footsteps to the door

& the rise and fall of a lovers breath;

I quit seeking it

I quit seeking the scripture, the book, the song, the verse;

What ignites my being with the incessant curse to return home. I am blissed you existed all along.

I still feel it,

The throng, the pulse, the footsteps, and the glint of light that sent it;

A single heartbeat, joy in an instant.

I still need it.

The secrets, the stories, all the pantomimes

And I believe it, you are oil and water on a rainy evening.

What would it be like to play I spy again?

Where was your first game located?

I suck it in and play off big cheese. That’s what we called a big bush of roses we purchased together. I spy something purple.

They blink sad they’re as nauseous as I am. What are friends for they say.

And that’s when I take off my jacket. They say they’ve spied something circular. I say it’s the chair. It’s the ceiling fan.

Boop, it’s a fingertip.

I spy something turquoise. It’s a pillow. My bestie guessed eight times.

I breathe. It’s easy breezy and beautiful to resume life tomorrow from here.

Somewhere in the city, in a low bathroom corner sits a man named Allister on the edge of his tub. In his mind is the weight of the future.

Shes coming down the fire escape now. No matter the contrast of color that impales his face him and Lily are to take a walk past the theatre everyone is interested in, past the invitations they invited into their world that day, into a small grove by the beach. He and Lily sit closely arms locked and twined by silence.

What has happened? They're not on the boat anymore and the warmth Alister was previously so familiar with has faded into Lilys new place in his life.

Alister was always sitting quietly, Lilli knew that, it just so happened that when he sat quietly wasn't just sitting quietly. He understood her silence as a mural between the two of them, a place they could share the sentiments that had webbed them closer when they were only still just strangers.

Hey, what are you doing?

Will you pick me up?

They say that their car seats are too hot right now but logon!

So we meet at the computer desk. Once I get to mine they say they are actually in the car about to wash it now.

I smile. It’s still good to know people. There are suds everywhere. This time it’s not so funny. They prefer the car wash machine.

I bring them in to show them my flower arrangement. No, it’s not edible - they coat stuff in sugar.

Eventually they yell how it’s too hot to be so good looking. They polish their feet and add food coloring to the suds.

I’m still in my bedroom. The heat is reaching me too but I’ve made tea - that’s hot - they notice.

They return to view with a towel and popsicles -they’re in a tray - for thirst.

I’m surprised how shiny their car still is once they dry it. I realize I don’t usually have a moment to admire it. Good job I say. I’m fixing my hair by now. Both of us look.

All of a sudden and coincidentally too the sky is face up and they mention a feast in song. What is it? I’ve gone lucky and small. 5 eggs drop carelessly into a pot of boiling water and chopped green onions make things more difficult in the grass. 4 pieces of bread are buttered and fried and I get to smash the ends with mustard and cress.

An emoji pops up.

What if bibliophilia is not only the love of words but what is found in them, what if this shape too is what makes the aspiration of love the greatest.

And i stopped myself from further singing. These are hard hard times, as if god were sighing. Dont know what was in her hand was for me to be sensing.

Of all the things I gave away;

Not the kisses nor the tears,

Not the sweat nor the blood,

Not the food nor the table,

Not sun drenched and sick nor dripping wet with rain,

Not the flowers nor the trees,

Not the prayer nor the comfort,

Not the boundary nor the blessing,

Not the yesterdays nor tomorrows,