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!”
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?