First, from nothing scarce.

From the significance in first tormenting light after leaving the dark.

I wanted to mention how love saved certain severances...The blood and clay…soul molded and punctured body of constellations…

 

How we break free.

How my star falls tonight.

 

Into the root. Into the wind to feel the soil again. Like his hands wavering the beginnings of sun and shelter...

 

Unmolded I stay.

So, I love you.

 

From nothing scarce. In between everything you are. Punctuation after sentences. Thoughts. Mind. Soul. Flesh.

Unmanufactured flower. Rotted thorn...With time, renewed justifications of longings…

 

Scented memories.

 

The sanctified bell of sonar gates and rusted souls. Inside something significantly creaks with open armed dreams. The beauty of my love sleeping upon my bosom offers no absolute of severances. In this love I will reside intangibly, so even if we lost our hands we can still touch…

 

Even if the wind stopped passing to move our ships, and clocks no longer disputed differences in soul within the hour that seconds became palpable in our chests, and I must reiterate all that I cannot decipher to start the fires that burn the avalanche of succession into our graves and disapproval from others... A blazing carnage will still cry... Burning while weeping, partially salvaging the home in our hearts and notes. We can live our way my love.

 

This evening, I did not want to write of you again. I write of you too much. But, perhaps inside I did want to. The consumption of your being within each line only leaves a hungrier verse. I am tormented by the delight in your eyes when I smile. I must be happy to give what feeds your soul…

 

Even when sad I can be merciful.

I will nourish your embryos of madness.  

 

Because, I love how you cradle what you could not clearly see in my dark. Stop now to smell the certain flowers we tend, that I promise to never tread over…We can uproot and live our way my love.

We can walk our own path through how our souls meld. Through nothing scarce of humble thorn and visceral flower. Through soiled ventures. And our punctured constellations.

 

Even then, we are happy.

 

© Mimi Caneda Mata