Jealous Lover

My skin brushes yours, and I remember the last oak
we ever carved our hearts into.

It's dead now,
grey and leafless,
but its bark still holds
more or less,
the mark of the love we shared,

aged,
faded,
battered,
and ripped.

As I run my hand,
through your soft hair
I think to you bringing
out your own garden's yield.

It's gone now,
consumed by the very
touch that binds us,

apples,
figs,
blackberrys,
bitter raspberrys.

My finger stokes your face,
wiping away your tears,
and I reminisce,
on the showers we shared,
even if I just had to peep
through the window,
through the darkness,
blood rushing to my face
as the lightbulb flickered violently.

I even remember
the few times
we threw ourselves to abandon,
ignoring our parents' wishes,
reveling in the joy of each other,
naked, and drenched in the cold.

How the bulb flashed, and the air itself shook.

But our parents would find us,
scold us,
rip us apart.

As my hands weave into yours,
I recall climbing the high trees
in your vast backyard,
how I would grab your arm,
amd you'd swing up to meet me.

And then, hands as one,
my arms would wrap around you,
and you'd blush as the sun
slowly dropped below the horizon.

Together, we'd sway,
back and forth
at your breath's consent,
in our highest perch,
in love, and  as one.

To this day,
I cannot understand why
the Druids would worship you.
I couldn't stand to,
to hold you apart,
to hold you up as a higher power,
to hold you up as a god.

A god must manage the whole world,
and I am a jealous lover.

- Mine again