I Love Lying Beneath and Above the Covers with You

-
I LOVE LYING BENEATH AND ABOVE THE COVERS WITH YOU

Written By
David Steven Simon

I love lying beneath and above
the covers
With you
As I trace your spine
With the earthbound
wingtip
Of my finger
Which informs me
Who you are
And how you came to be

It is the
glue and thread
of you.

There were many others before me
You had your following
And reputation

Some dumped you
Some adored you
Everyone had an opinion.

But for me
It was love at first sight.
I discovered
Within minutes that you
lusted to be
Spread wide open
Just as much as me.

Which is why I went
on the hunt
With invisible dogs
Heady with the scent of fox.

I had to be
alone with you
In the illusive
Peter Pan shadow
Of a half-lit night
Where the soundtrack is
The plaintive duet
Between
Pulse and breath
Which are the stand-ins
For Pirate
And boy.

I needed you
to be
Lost in
the ambition of my hands
Where the only voice
Was yours
Singing
the tribal warning songs
That are the prophecies
And empirical evidence
of the
wake damaged heart

I became obsessed with you
And when I was away
I carried you in the luggage
Of thought

You had moved like pioneers
into the frontier of my
Imagination and
Grew right before my very eyes
Becoming
Dress swirling
alive
With every turn
Which felt like the
Bold prophecy of a
Spontaneous
pirouette

You were so easy to read
And so difficult
to figure out

Nothing thrilled me more
Than slowly slipping off your jacket
So I could see the delicate shoulders of
The real you.

Everyone who has loved
You
Changed
you
Ripped you down
And built you back up
Is now a part
Of the helix
of my narrative
And on permanent display
In the ongoing
Exhibition
That most of the world will never see
Even when lines form

And now
what makes me sad
Is that your days are numbered

You are on your
death bed
Still inches away
Which is the
Furthest point of
intimacy.

But who will leave first?
You
Or me?
How does that work exactly,
When we arrive at the
Literary steep
of your final words?

Like everything that we set our hearts on
You will become
Obliterated matter
The asterisk of mist.

And in time
In days, not weeks,
You will be replaced
Because
Curiosity and desire
Are my dandelions

But know this:
Few will surprise me
Shock me
Infatuate me
Infuriate me
Like you

It will be impossible to let you go.

I will
Carry you to points unknown
For years to come.
And maybe more

And every day
And every day

When I remember
Or I am encouraged to

I will memorialize you with a fluted toast
At parties
And
even to the infinite stranger
Who will sit next to me
In my cafe
Who will no doubt be captivated
By why I loved you,
a cherished novel,
So very, very much.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

MY OWN PERSONAL MERMAID. BELIEVE IN HER.

-
Image
It was a sad time in New York City, especially on Park Avenue where I lived then. My given name was Magritte, for daddy’s favorite artist Rene Magritte, who thought that embracing mystery was “as indispensable as snow on Christmas.” But everyone, as far back as I can remember, always called me “Mags.” I was 8, an only child, who was impressively precocious for her age. My favorite authors were Kafka, the feminist writer Naomi Wolff and Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. When I was seven, I wrote a love letter to Stephen Hawking. He wrote back saying, “Jesus, I just can’t figure you out.” I had a room that was handmade to make me feel that magic was at all times of the night and day, a dependable, ever-ready option thanks, in part to the twinkling stars, comet trails, and cream-colored clouds that streaked across the infinite, midnight blue sky of my ceiling  that was painted by my mom when she was young, healthy, and still able to do things like wave to daddy’s video camera with daffy rubber-f
Read more

What Must Babies Think?

-
What must babies think, As they wonder why their Push pram rocket ship Which on most days thrusts them Into the universe of the fiery sky ball and chatter filled park Sits mothballed in the corner Staring at the wall like White-haired bench people Who always seem so Sad and forgotten? What must dogs think The Wal Mart greeters of the Animal world Who use the sign language Of the excitable nose and tail To communicate their borderline insane love for anything that moves When they trot out first thing In the morning like they’re in competition at Westminster Only to discover A show of silent concrete? What must jets think Who usually cannibalize people Until their bellies are full When the only in-flight meal Is a flight crew Two pilots And 900 steerage ghosts Who sit Without hope or destiny In the kind of Quiet That follows anyone Who has ever walked Away from a grave? What must birds think The cocky pigeons The Blue-header vireo Or the Y
Read more

When Ours Parents Are Gone

-
I have not spoken to my dad in over forty years. Years ago I turned my back on him and walked away and that was that. No, we didn’t have a fight. He died when I was 25 and that walk away came right on the beat at the conclusion of the service in the cemetery after we lowered him with sway and love deep into the womb of the ground, like a treasure chest, ceremonially buried in that family secret place that only we would ever know the location of. When you bury a parent, time suddenly becomes unfathomable, unreliable, it suddenly faints away like a delicate socialite into the landing strip of a waiting divan, from the searing heat of loss, Our parent’s final breath pushes us into a dimension of exquisite separation and inextinguishable pain, where everything still feels just within our reach but in truth is now as far away as the weeping moon. The cemetery only knows formality. The weathered stones, which, like the canvas of our souls, have epitaphs and life stories carved deeply into th
Read more