Behind the bamboo blinds


I couldn’t love you on the sly,

From behind the bamboo blinds

that smelled of a distant wilderness –

wet, green and laved with gossamer memories.

It broke my breath to smithereens

to merely stand and watch you pass by,

as if you were a nymph in a lucid dream.

The stars are the shards that flew to the sky

to watch over on my ceaseless sighs.

Wary of refusal and infamy

I couldn’t profess it to you

through my heart’s tenuous beat;

If you walked away scattering my virtuous plea,

It would be more sinister than a dystopian night.

How would I survive my love’s apocalypse,

spelled by your disdainful eyes and curled lips?

I couldn’t have stood there all life,

Smelling the bamboo blinds,

turning my angst to prayer

and my amour to poetry.

So I became the cloud, and poured

as if I was singing my last ballad.

As I dripped from your tousled hair

and slithered down your silken skin

inhaling its heavenly, mortal scent,

I heard you say in half-annoyance,

“Oh, this soaking rain!”

Sweet naivety,

who would tell you it was our secret communion

witnessed by a wan twilight, an incensed earth,

and the angels of clandestine love

hiding in the petals of pink spring blossoms?


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