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I Am Santo

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Not sure this happened. Not sure the wind in the trees rustled with answers to longing, or if that was the sound of clouds ripping apart under a sun that warmed too much, a sky that promised escape. And hearing it all was like milk on your lips, the contrast to now, stray white dribbling through the present into the past and the fury of lust left behind in a sour blossom. Each dream allays hope, positioning lovers in nocturnes adorning small spaces far from the real; that tepid present where they lay apart, where melancholia blooms like irises in the dark, opening, spreading black, lessening color but welcoming, beckoning. Such foolish desires for the blush of flesh and the stroke of hard blessing, it’s a sickness drifting on the breeze of autumn, raising skin to gooseflesh as if breath puffed through pursed lips, cooling after the sweat and pulse pounding, where bodies lay in a calm moment, cradling treasure and wishing it could all be etched in stone. Their lips split from the absense of each other through long seasons, unsure of their place anywhere but pressed against each other and those softening, thickening homes of radiant need flooding with demand. The spill of yearning, that brine of finest vintage, haunts every arc of a lonely daystar searching for a moon to cover her so that the world might stand in awe before shaded union and see in the rose of their ardor, those glasses tinted by both knowing and promise. Tomorrow will come, say the trees if you stop and listen. Tomorrow will prove it all.


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