| Love Adrift |
I stood there waiting for you with a hopeful heart
at the riverbed, a majestic ruin
where asphalt meets natures resurrection.
I prayed in stage-silent tongues
that your heart had not forgotten my final calling.
I watched the water roll onward
in it's foggy descent to a place where
the ocean meets the sky and each compliment
one another in their quest to truly exist.
I imagined we were a paradox of the same intent.
Me, always bending, always changing form
to keep you near, to keep our sacred love
from bellowing away on the soft November breeze.
And you, always clinging to the contradictory
woes of our desire, consistent with yesterdays mishaps.
Minutes later our footsteps met under the time-warped oak tree
and all I saw were your eyes, those brown-speckled irises.
Beckoning to me, crying for me, touching my soul
in the most solemn places as your arms enshrouded me
and we breached forever with goodbye as two lovers lost in time.
Appearing in Anonymous Confessions, Copyright © of Stacy Lynn Mar 2006
at the riverbed, a majestic ruin
where asphalt meets natures resurrection.
I prayed in stage-silent tongues
that your heart had not forgotten my final calling.
I watched the water roll onward
in it's foggy descent to a place where
the ocean meets the sky and each compliment
one another in their quest to truly exist.
I imagined we were a paradox of the same intent.
Me, always bending, always changing form
to keep you near, to keep our sacred love
from bellowing away on the soft November breeze.
And you, always clinging to the contradictory
woes of our desire, consistent with yesterdays mishaps.
Minutes later our footsteps met under the time-warped oak tree
and all I saw were your eyes, those brown-speckled irises.
Beckoning to me, crying for me, touching my soul
in the most solemn places as your arms enshrouded me
and we breached forever with goodbye as two lovers lost in time.
Appearing in Anonymous Confessions, Copyright © of Stacy Lynn Mar 2006
| ~A woman who writes feels too much, those trances and portents! As if cycles and children and islands weren't enough; as if mourners and gossips and vegetables were never enough. She thinks she can warn the stars. A writer is essentially a spy. Dear love, I am that girl.~ Anne Sexton |
| Stacy Lynn Mar |