His.

I was his when the first star burst onto the midnight sky

I was his when the first leaf fell on an autumn wind

I was his when the first rain soaked the desert sand

 

His when he smiled at me

His when he spoke to me

His when my pillow welcomed his tears

 

I knew him like the sound of bird calls in the morning

Like the whir of dragonfly wings

Like the melting of snow

 

He has always been imprinted onto the canvas of my soul

Always an echo of my very own heartbeat

Always the river that threatened to drown me

 

I was his when he kissed me

His when we sinned

His when he taught me to surrender to lust

 

Our love was like mist on the tamarack covered hills

Descending, then receding

Then finding its home

Where moss covers rocks

Where lichen drips from branches

Where lips meet the edges of forbidden places

 

He was never perfection

He was always the question

Never the answer, but forever my distraction

 

And I, so difficult, his fervent passion

 

His where mind and body find communion

His where demons and angels sing in unison

His where thunder signals storms I can’t weather

His where I fall to my knees before him

His where he guides me into knowing his secrets

 

We were always like this

Always a sonnet

That only we heard

A  lonely note on the wind…

 

~

Author: Monika Carless

Image: Pixaby; Flickr/Mateus Lunardi Dutra

Editor: Yoli Ramazzina