He’d always wondered where she kept
her wings. And he questioned where she hid
her horns. He could never find feathers on her
boney, bare back and he couldn’t feel spikes
in her honey-scented hair. He received no hints
from her psychedelic eyes. Her voice was as coarse as Satan's smile,
yet slow and smooth like God's palms, and as far-fetched
as it may seem, even more lovely and beautiful
than life itself: much like a fantasy,
they found love underneath the evening sky, from where
the moon and stars convened to dazzle
the darkness. The night was perfectly composed
of the whirring of cars, the chirping
of crickets, the bland beauty of midsummer-night-city air.
Once they learned how to hate, everything
flew: pillows, keys, books, shoes, blow-dryers,
hands, words- in every sense, pure and utter chaos.
At times they hated more than they loved, but they made love
more than they hated. They were stuck
in the present. When she was unhappy, he never knew
exactly why (neither did she), and when he drowned
on his happiness, she was burned by her anger.
In the prime of their youth, they had no clocks,
they owned no mirrors, nor goals. They were forever young
and wild. Driving a few dozen miles too fast, she swore she’d
pierce the air. Glitter fell from the sky, and memories sparkled
against street-lights and high-beams. He was too busy
rolling up a good time to discourage
her from tasting the stars. And only on the nights
with the gayest of the starts is he ever so lucky
enough to catch one whiff of her honey-scented blithe
imagination. Just as it began, it ended with a shimmer.