I have imagined her from every possible angle have painted skies with her needlepoint rain and am now defying gravity and leaving behind my body derelict and wasted on the sublime felonies of sunkissed air and singed feathers. Advertisements
The only voice of hers I know is in my head, frozen to an untouched form, lying, bedwarmed, in gravity’s stead.
The mouth, birthing a migrant kiss, begs gravity’s pardon in raising lips to a sublime arc.
In these mortal coils I have always marveled at the sheer lightness of centuries rising to meet love in a single feral drop of gospel distilled to its purest form.
By reign of pearls, a pin-up siren minding gravity to commemorate a slow-burn fade to mortal flash.
Water, like a tempera of fog, buoying the natal intent, the fragile rapture, against which gravity sets an insoluble course.
To hell, lovingly, with gravity as it claims one’s pulse and vitals; a precipitous plunge into faith at the far end of a diminishing tunnel pinched by light.
