Wry Ironies: The Romantic

You will be remembered
in seclusion,
those
moments
of infinite joy
will resound
through their
visceral bliss,
quintessentially

 an eternity,
and
all else will be well;
you will be loved from afar,
(count on it),
with all the
virtue
of a
beautiful life

and
inspired
meditations;

in quiet,
in garden light,
in moments when
dreams unmet,
dreamt before
when you were
here,
but away,

can be known
in the thrilling
of wry desire:
a Beltane fire,
as dirt makes way
for seed
and the
scents of wild things
intoxicate her,
and
soft grunting effort
brings her into her body.

It is you who will be remembered
when the
dress she is wearing
touches those places on her skin,
or
deep in the night
when she
surfaces from a dream
of honey running
underneath your skin.

You will be remembered
by virtue of your
conspicuous self
biting her shoulder
by the fire
as the gum woodsmoke
reaches her nostrils

and the heat dries her eyeballs,
its intensity flaring
at her skin

 while she

dries her hair
while she
follows the dancing
flame's semantics.

She will lift off
and
string your memory along;
justifying the poet in you,
you shall be
her ballast weight.

You shall be
ever a sigh,
a sweet weight on the mind.

You will be
romanticised
until all trouble
is excised
from the
betrayal of memory;
she suspends shame
in condescension
knowing it

to be an ephemerism,
 mere fleshly phantom
in the light of
metaphysics,
 the greatness
of dreams.

She waits in the wild
writing mystic
letters
to your
impossibilities,
your almost
realities;
while each of her kisses
unfolds in your
wondering soul
and
her words open like roses
like fig seeds
birthing green
like mother's milk
like balm
like epiphanies;
ripen like apples
in the
colder climes
and
release
warmer scents
upon tropical night
breezes.

Her skin in the sun
shall also find your lips warm.

Every lover's touch
of her fingertips
and lips
shall soften your skin
to dusk petals.
That dream
you both shared
shall live
in your eyes
as her memory ripens to gold.