Lust, the troubadour.

When my heart is broken,
I always notice the spilling over of love all around me.


Love arc's.
Venus disrupts
and the collage of contact
between
her and her and
her and him and
him and him
swims like the moon on water.
Wavering against each other in formation and reflection,
lovers stare into each others eyes
and I remember yours.


Clear-clear crystal blue Lake Tahoe.
I sink to the bottom,
weighted by my love of you,
drowned by the loss of you.


Things feel different at these depths.


Down here love doesn't leave anyone out.
Down here love doesn't say I am not for you
and you are not for me.

That's something quite different.


Lust acting like love to get what he wanted.
Lust, the marauder.
Lust, the bandit.
Lust, the outlaw
Lust, the troubadour who plundered my heart.


And deep in the wound,
in the soft moist ooze and sebum
of my broken heart,
a creature begins to form
sheathed in it's coppery dappled shell.
The tiny embryo of something from nothing
solders itself into existence.
Nestled between ventricle and artery
the scent of cinnamon and damp earth rises
and familiar sounds echo.


The scratch of eruption into becoming
can be heard

and a tiny phoenix rises
from my broken heart.