I.
we met in the cold of the woods
licked by a tongue unfamiliar to us both
conversing over a carcass
a connection forged over books
it was quiet -- our purposes left me cautious
while I craved your touch
pálinka did not embolden you as I hoped
more telling, it made me equally wary
and our chance stole into the night
I chased it. I plunged into a darkness where there was no visible light
the journey powered by the fumes of my own excited breath
as the letters piled on my desk I knew
we danced around the lynchpin
the reason we tightened the noose
too afraid, too pragmatic -- it was hard to tell
a journey led by pages through romantic distances
as life led me away from the book we were writing
to one off the page with a warm bed
it became clear to me
the burn of your letters was never a hearth
but a campfire for the night.
II.
reams of pages were swept up by my hurricane heart
the ink bleeding through the paper
in between the lines of my silent confessions
squeezed tight in the margins
I swelled and burst my buttons
I unfolded the stack, greedily eating every morsel strewn on its pages,
as I faced an uncertain winter
what did we gain in our reticence, old fashioned as it was,
when my pen etched a name that remained despite the fear
twinged with an excitement that had no home
did we know that erasers could not smudge the ink
and a farewell was inevitable?
were we adrift until we found a sand bar?
stemming the tide was an unromantic defeat;
a refusal to meet Olenska on the balcony,
learning to live with that choice.
was it better to quietly abscond in the cold of the Magyar forest
with only postcards as evidence of this crime of omission
please tell me -- I cannot be sure anymore
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