If I were to speak of my love,
I would return to the sweet elderflower brushing my nose tip in the summer, and to kiss-stains of pollen
If I were to speak — stop — listen :
do you hear how the cold salt water beckons us to turn back, repent ? Do you hear how the sea’s waves break with sorrow upon the shore ? It rends my heart to think of you, dear one, love of loves. It rends my heart, which rends the space — black as earth — between here and a [ ] God’s stars
we are not moderns, love, you and I, who guard the Romantics’ fervour (in spite), you and I who tend to tulips — and — the labdanum fastened in the garrigue, and wildflowers like cups to the rain. You, conviction, You, a vow. You with whom persuasion’s heels slip in the loose and dusty ground — deliverance of ‘yes,’ I give ‘yes.’
For what were we looking, my love ? A way to live, still ?
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