Deep and dense,
like a deep dense forest in one of my forgotten dreams,
your voice calls me in a language that
I do not know.
I struggle to understand what you mean as
our lips and our fingers and our eyes meet.
Fever is sweet.
I try to recall that moment of love
but I remember nothing now.
Love never lingers for long, nor passion.
I often think how your voice used to sound, your stress on certain words,
but everything is vague.
I remember your colours often but everything is slippery like life itself.
What forgiveness now if I cannot remember clearly how your
eyes would colour at the threat of my touch?
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3 comments:
this is so beautiful, i like the simplicity of this language, there is a certain raw edge to this voice speaking here, from a region which is now beyond regret and beyond redemption.
the last question makes me breathless. then, forgetting that i am in a poem, i start to wonder, how many of my lovers would have noticed that, how my eyes would colour at the threat of their touch - and why this suddenly seems so important. because a poet made it seem/become so, no doubt.
Regret takes many forms. And if one loses that bit in our memories where the for granted is so evasive now.... Like the shape of the lovers' nails, the misshaped face on the mirror, the look of longing. This is despair and this loss is more unbearable than the big loss itself. I will say that all poetry must be about loss. I mean real poetry, not these lines of longing.
You're right -- as usual, and I hate the expectedness of that, almost as much as I love the trembling shock of the li(n)es:
"What forgiveness now if I cannot remember clearly how your / eyes would colour at the threat of my touch?"
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