When you leave me and go,
I am only sorrow,
a lost bird,
in colorful twirls of a dead-leaf tornado,
with a luxurious song
for the apple fallen
in dark innocence
in a flight of sighs,
thrashed about by winds,
groaning at the deaf moon,
for you.
You, the fermentation
of my destiny,
full-bodied wine
of leisurely ivy,
jumping over fences in my soul,
stepping beyond the ground you won,
through this habit’s loyalty
of wanting you back
and seeking security
in your embrace.
So you come back,
not seeing
the contours of feeling,
when I hurl myself into misconceptions
of your belated grace.
Still...
we reach up for songs,
we dance inside the emptiness
of a half-forgotten stage,
for I don’t want the play to be over,
as long as this joy lasts
in my plain life,
sharing the love you see in me,
with such strange constancy.
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