there is a calm that sets in after you have met enough people. the experiences we share. some good. some foolish.
some unnecessary evil behaviors. linger like a touch of perfume on a pulse and a thin wrist.
me and the screen door had a shouting match of tears and than it all went silent.
the strangers are kind when passing repeatedly by in these streets. there is music and fire.
I can see your memory like a wet dagger.
and my breath no longer is a gasoline soaked rag and a sigh.
there’s a mythical understanding. you sound of raised paint and non accidental passion.
there is no remedy metronome. no need to keep steady.
time. I’m talking from the right corner of a wronged mouth. i get it.
the resistance. the calamity of a passion i couldn’t question i knew you before this life.
Some things come at you once. no matter how high functioning the air and the notion finds you weak kneed and 3rd degree burned. that’s love.
faulty and rhythmic.
And I want to tidy up this elicit passion in spring green tissue paper and a bow. the end seems so desperate and there’s a whisper when the days turn past midnight. it’s the time for lovers to dance under a blanket of dark sky and ignorance makes your head feel foggy even if in the light of day you are one of the few born wise.
love has no logic or plain clothes disguise. it’s made of jagged edges- the jaws of life- and a new King’s English definition of passion.
Passion is an infection crossing the blood brain barrier and the hem of my skirted knees fall wide open. from the sight of you. i hope. but know nothings better. it just is.
After years of speed dating dead authors and their echoes of quoted thought. i find your arms reassuring.
i’d make the pair i carry in pause and involuntary reaction throw themselves like a lasso to your neck. they could hang your final thought and your single breath makes this Solo cup life worth fighting dirty for. so i sigh against the memory of your sound and you on my red vinyl barstool. A king i couldn’t kiss enough to throw away in an ally or as the wrong player for the part. perfect. that’s the only way I could begin the gossip and the words i batter and let fall to break on granite and dirty dish filled sink.
there’s a calm. and i can’t tell time from loss.
nothing is clear when you find passion.
i could curse you or martyr you on the front lawn grass. but that wouldn’t solve you.
decades of life experience devastated by one man and one passionate run on sentence most may never find.
i want to run.
make it a manhunt with the knowledge a single soul shouldn’t be able to follow you home in an after life.
you could be made to worry. a fugitive in my awkwardly stubborn mind.
but i want you to trap me in 2012 and let me start counting. i decided in the off leap year last month of February we could be fucked.
we could be compromise and a pile of filth and issues
or we could be wild blessings counting on the kindness of strangers and spies.
i won’t lie.
you are my wild blessing and the peace i find in never knowing
how passion can breathe in grid lock traffic and smog sabotage.
it ain’t perfect. but it ain’t a lie. and i’m calm reading your palm and my eulogy.
i lack your understanding. i can’t trace where the phone calls go.
emergency whiskey and a static address make me an easy target and local.
it’s called passion and a dead calm.
i know you as a lie i won’t tell.
a wild blessing i can’t own but a taste.
this life is familiar and waiting just like you.
i’m dead calm. you’re a wild sound.
and i’ve been counting my blessings.
a destroyed book of bible stories and a long memory where you’re concerned.
it’s bleeding and bare.
it’s what few know or others jump the gun to run from.
it’s not happy.
it’s an isolated word and way you whisper and sell out from between your teeth.
it can’t tell a lie.
it lays down as a strangle and a stranger.
and you can’t argue back at it.
you can only make your peace and remain. calm.
i am. you are.
a familiar passion. is a story and could be nothing. but it’s not. not nothing.
Elmer’s glue and no one’s going to let you lie. all this time. all i know.
is the calm when i’m alone.
is the passion when your taste is placed between my upper and lower rose coloured lips.
i find you. as an addiction. as rare passion.
i found how to be silent engulfed in your flames.
-C. Roses Lambrecht