Love's Aftermath

He said she smelled of sweet rain
like grass after the morning dew settles;
He could only see the back of her hair
light curls falling in tendrils woven
together like macramé hangers.
He wanted to plant his face
inside of her garden, breathe her roses
until the thorns from their stems
slashed unforgiving scars into his face
leaving memory maps in the mirror.

She danced for him beneath the moonlight
his hands reaching for her beams but only
touching shadows that twirled,
full skirt alive above her thighs,
and she smiled teasingly as he cried.
No orchestrated violins screaming sonatas,
stretching their bows upon the wires
or trumpets announcing arrivals of Kings;
only the harmonies of the wind blowing soft
through the treetops as she moved
in rhythm to the whispering leaves.

He said she could mix spells with just
a blink of her eye, create fires in the hillsides
with her anger, bring in the tides
with her love, snowstorms with her sighs;
but she couldn't mend broken hearts
at least not his too damaged for an outcome.
She stroked his aura until the painting finished
colored hues of sadness shadowed by tears
the frame about the oiled canvas the same
a gilded border that housed his pain.

He said he never touched her skin
not like when he swam with the dolphins;
never truly inhaled her up close
only in dreams and vision of her ghost.
To him life was just the thought of her
passing by the window, turning her head
to peek into the parted curtains where he sat
staring catatonically at the cedar wall;
his lips curling occasionally upwards
as if angel infants left kisses on his mouth.
irregardless his soul was left meaningless
in the haunting aftermath of her absence.

~ws~