Noam's branches arched as the moon rose and the stars painted the sky, his roots tangled beneath us, the language of lost leaves alive with promise. Noam, with his sweet caramel skin and berry-bruised lips; big city dreams falling like whispered words warm in my hair, and his hands, softer than magic, slipping inside me, rocking me to sleep.
Tomas found me eons later, disenchanted, newly woken. He: a soccer god with thunderstorm thighs, and I: a silent siren, misunderstood in sepia. The father of my only child, the rhythm of his betrayal a tattoo across my heart.
Stephen, an extraordinary crush with aching almond eyes, sculpted of bone and feathers, shrouded in mystery. His calloused fingers on my cheek, high-stick scar like pale moonlight, chapped lips brushing mine goodnight. He tasted of ice and salt and bitters. Forever, meant for another.
Powder thin and haunting, David lurked behind my nightmares. His voice an arrow through the wires, reedy with time and trouble, wrapped around a single word and caught my breath unbound. The ticket between my teeth was one-way and west; I would land in the mountains with clipped wings and not return.
Michael. Bruce. Wesley. Terrified poets with stained collars and thick-soled boots. Others in those blackout years, empty boy-bodies, jagged edges torn smooth. Their faces resurface in stray moments, fragments of another time. Gideon. Ian. Max.
A prayer for lost love, scattered ashes marking time though the winds had other plans. Lincoln, laughing, birthday candles and sparkly bows, a heart-shaped wish with freckles like sweet gone wild and eyes as clear as green river mornings. Memories of dappled shade, a downy blanket, a crimson blue.
Moments like gifts of sunshine, an hour, a lifetime.
A flux of sundered sky, a murmur ripped wide and drenched in wicked rain. Dark lips on mine a magic like no other: not a waving wand or a yellow ribbon, but a fairie godmother’s faith, a stolen tooth beneath my pillow taken root.
Noam.
A giant with Broadway in his heart and too many years between us; berry-sweet leaves and thick gnarled branches, a cradle of green and night and the softest summer strength. Warm breath in my hair, dreams like rooted seedlings, a well of forever, a gracious plenty.
His hands close around mine and new shoots circle my fingers, my wrists, my breasts. Smooth arms surround me, snowing pollen like so much stardust and I sleep once more, my lover's heartbeat a flood of sweet syrup in my mouth, and all the world before us, a feast of angels, waiting.