Thursday, July 17, 2014

An Iron Bed

Meet me in a poem
of an iron bed;
wipe the dust away.
                                    --------  From "Flowers" by The Civil Wars

Wasted, beneath the moon I dream of you.

Your eyes closed, your face in my hands, the dark of your hair flowing around the white of your shoulders in waves, the curves of your body melting beneath mine, the gleam of your smile teasing of untold pleasures.

I look up from the smile on your face, and all around the bed grow weeds in my garden of secrets. No matter what you do, they will never give me away. Through the iron bars, I can see my shadow stretch to the horizon. Only it can't be my shadow, for it is bleeding. Glistening in the moonlight, the blood traces the lines of the bed as it climbs steadily all around us. I close my eyes and bend forward to kiss you, but cannot reach your lips below me.

Someday I will finally meet you and my lips will find yours.

In the meantime, I dream of you. And inside my head, you dream of me too.

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