a literal metaphor

You were in my subconsciousness
deep as a fault line,
and with your absence comes a trembling
as the tectonic plates of what I know to be true
slide together uncomfortably
and set my whole mind shaking.

There's been an earthquake in my head
and it looks like the buildings are still standing
but everything's been structurally damaged--
there is no water running, no electricity,
nothing left to connect these disparate broken thoughts,
and the gas lines have all burst,
leaving some of them quite flammable to the smallest spark.

All these beautiful historic buildings,
all the architecture built in place on a foundation of love,
all the open windows looking into trashed rooms,
all the sturdy doorways opening onto rubble,
it'll all have to come down now,
razed to the ground once the aftershocks die down.

The tremors are still happening, though.
I can't do anything to rebuild until the ground quiets.
Perhaps the tectonic plates will settle
without the buffer you made between the jagged edges.
Fault lines don't just disappear,
but if I'm lucky this one will lie quiescent for the rest of my days.

This isn't good for either of us
but you're not the one being consumed.
You flare bright, shower sparks
and at your slightest touch I burn
and burn, and burn, and can't stop burning
and won't stop until there's nothing left of me
but smoke hanging heavy in the sky
and the burnt-out remains of what held me together.
This isn't good for either of us
but it's too late.
I know your touch.
The fire's already raging through me.
Maybe you'll recover, collect yourself,
maybe you'll delight different eyes,
but there is no after-you for me.
There's only this fire, until I'm burned up,
until you leave me ruined behind you.

I think we've got it backwards.
Summer days sweating to slow death
garlanded with roses,
making things grow just to have something to do.

Maybe she spends the summer
lost in her memories of his mouth,
the way he touches her,
the timbre of his voice as he calls her "my queen."

Maybe her mother's overbearing,
her friends don't get it,
other gods come knocking at her door
promising to show her a good time.

Maybe she spends weeks drying flowers
to bring him her scent
to tide him though the next interminable summer,
sleeping with his shirt tucked under her pillow.

Maybe she spends the dog days waiting for that first ripe pomegranate--
swallowing seeds in her haste to taste more
and greeting him at the top of the staircase with lips stained red
and half the fruit still in her left hand.

Maybe she gets the best of it--
strawberries and thunderstorms
and leaves the harvest to other hands
as he leads her into the underworld.

Let Demeter reap corn and shovel snow
while Persephone is benevolent to the dead,
blooming below the earth,
warm in his arms through the all-too-brief winter.

One day I'll find the words I need.
The ones I have now are fumbling,
approximations, not quite right.
One day I'll be fluent in the language of love.
Until then, I have these words:
deeply, fully, truly, more than I can say,
passionately, all-encompassingly,
overwhelmingly, obsessively,
very very much, a lot, greatly,
like crazy, painfully, wildly,
for so long, more than there are stars,
more than anything at all.

Soon I won't need the words of missing,
but I'll never stop working on the words of love.

I don't have to put it in words again.
I spelled it out quite clearly the first time:
I love you more than I know how to bear,
and perhaps I can't-- not gracefully, at least.
How many times did I resort to tears?
(But never in your presence, oh no,
I did my hardest work trying not to manipulate you.)
How many times did I lie awake all night,
failing to put thoughts of you from my mind?
How many times did my opinion of myself fall,
thinking that I should be stronger,
that I should be able to content myself with platonic love?

I wish I'd known this word a year ago,
wish I'd known I could put a name to my feelings.
Would it have helped me to see it defined--
intrusive thinking, need for reciprocation,
fear of rejection paired with hope--
or would it have made no difference at all?

I'll never know, having resolved it before naming it.
I'll never know, and never need to know,
now that you've given me what I needed so badly,
now that you've dispelled my fears.
I'm limerent no longer-- I've become beloved,
and now, perhaps, I'll find I can be graceful,
bearing up under the (much-lightened) burden of love.

Something golden-sweet
tantalizes my tongue.
Did I imagine it?
A taste of honey...

Golden as summer sunlight
and sweet as you, my love,
dripping slowly off the spoon
before I stir it into tea.

Once upon a time, this
was the most sweetness
anyone would ever get:
a taste of honey.

Now we've got cane sugar
and high fructose corn syrup
but this is still the best--
licking one sweet drop from your skin.

My heart is not broken, merely obscured:
a full moon behind heavy rain clouds.
It's whole and radiant and removed from me,
shining brightly over the Pacific
and casting light on the Finger Lakes
but unseen from the Atlantic and the Hudson River.

My heart still beats, but quietly:
songs of joy muted to distant humming.
The melody still rings true, but in one part,
without the alto to harmonize,
missing the baritone counterpoint,
just a reedy soprano carrying a third of the tune.

My heart is waiting patiently:
a calendar with one red-letter day.
Days go by, crossed out one by one,
made bearable by letters signed "Yours,"
and never-long-enough phone calls,
coming slowly closer to the moment we'll meet again.

You disarm me.
For you, I'll bare my throat.
For you, I'll submit.
For you, I'll show my vulnerabilities
and beg you to take advantage of them
shivering under your fingertips when you do.
For you and no one else
I will lay down in your arms
and close my eyes, and sleep.

There's nothing pure about me.
I'm a gleeful criminal,
a shameless deviant,
proud of my abnormality.
I disrespect laws
and codes of conduct
in search of excitement
and personal truth.
Not only do I do these things,
but I like to talk others
into my favorite transgressions.
"Trust me. I do this all the time."
"You don't have to... but think about it."
"I promise you'll enjoy this."
Sometimes it doesn't take much,
a slight nudge, a few convincing words:
a new partner in crime.
Other people require more work,
a cost-benefit analysis,
testimonials of prior escapades,
precautions against repercussions.
Still, it's more fun being bad
when I'm sharing it with someone,
being a bad influence on behavior,
and anyways,
my favorite transgressions
are the ones I can't do alone.

Circling like the hawks above the wood
Taking a long view on our little gyres
The places our spirals kiss and spin apart
The ambit of my life brushing yours
Wingtips caressing as we pass each other by
Let me catch your updraft and follow you higher
Sync up our circles, chase you upwards
Taste the sky in your wake