Monday, December 23, 2013

Tender Melancholy

More and more now, my chest seeps full
with the tender melancholy of satisfaction.

It feels like breathing hot apple cider
or the warm slide of honey through my veins.

It encapsulates me like the wispy amber haze
of being almost all the way glad.

There are times when I resist its soothing,
fearful of there someday being a last time

and a serrated opening of half-healed wounds
from long before we escaped the heat together

in lawn chairs along the Santiam and you let me
touch the soft skin of your thigh after letting me taste

the softer skin of your lips in the cold, cold water
that was not so cold. There was a wafting just then

of what I think is called happiness and I was not afraid.
There was nothing that did not change with those kisses,

those caresses, your pressing yourself into the realization
that my drawing you closer was me giving everything away.

IthacaLit - Winter 2014

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