My Love Is Like The Fragrant Myrrh

My love appeared to me in the hour
before sunset,
in the dusky hour heavy with the
weight of unspilled secrets. Tell me,
my love,
where do you gaily frolic in the hours
you are apart from me? ‘I toil ‘neath
the scorching sun,
weaving love’s incessant yearning like
the beams of bridges to find my way
to you.’
My heart is made of sandalwood, I trail
myrrh and fragrant spices
with abandon.

You are a city I cannot breach

You are a city built of shadowed corners
and mysterious alleys
I long to explore them with my fingers and my tongue
Trace the fine veins in your marble walls and wrap myself in your tapestries
I look at you and I see a dark and sweltering night
pregnant with heat and a full moon
and all the little things I want to reveal
in hushed whispers and languid caresses
But you keep your secrets close
and your walls maintained
with the sharp arrows of your archers
that are careless sometimes
with where they choose their target
And I wonder
if you are even aware

Fiddling While Rome Burns

Scattered bites of joy in the face of abject suffering

Prying kindness off forked tongues

(Must I wrest my happy from the jaws of monsters?)

Satiating bloodlust of the drunken masses

(If I relish this small joy I found, will it land like salt on your unhealed wounds?)

Don’t look to me to ease your sorrow

If I cannot save the burning city, then I shall glory, unapologetically, in its dazzling demise

Morning Dove

Aleigha Kely

If, when counting colossal breaths,
the symmetry proves
too much, call down to me the
ways you’d like to further vanish.
Take me as a place you’d
travel to, when the swallows

go. All I can know about
you surfaces briefly, as if caught
in some oblivion. Some mornings,
I wake to gentle breath, and think in
soft touches, wonder where your
mind goes each night.

I could keep reaching for certainty
in response to this
grow-old-with-me,
but why land there? Let’s
step out somewhere more
blue-evoking, or bend the

river north. It isn’t
too important to decide
where to build the farm,
or the house with exposed wood;

the ceiling fan turns slowly above me.
I picture linens rippling in gentle
heat. Somewhere far away, a morning
dove perched on the moss fence
sings his holy tune.

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Love Me in a Different Language

If you’ve forgotten how to love me, mi amor, then please recall the words that once upon a time were softly sung to you,

that were crooned so sweetly at your mothers breast in the land that bore your father and his father before him.

Draw near to me, amor, and we’ll map our bodies with the sounds of passion,

where we’ll learn to love anew in your mother’s tongue, passed down from generation to generation.

Let us ink our hearts in nuances of sun-baked streets and moonlit trysts
in dialects that knew of love and loss long before our stars were lit,

that echo still of golden skin, and raven hair, and lips that taste of briny seas.

If you’ve forgotten how to love me, mi amor, let us learn to love again in languages unspeakable.

It is said that one changes personalities to subconsciously reflect the language that is being spoken.

Your Darkest Night

It was black and endless and lined with teeth all over.
Descending like a wet blanket,
every breath you drew was a shudder.

*On a separate note, I’d like to reiterate just how much I dislike textual misunderstandings. Yesterday was the first time I got true hate comments on my blog. What I thought was carefree banter somehow caused the other person to devolve into calling me something vulgar and tell me to burn in hell. The fact that I don’t entertain phone calls from married men may have factored into this whole debacle. Why are we always so apt to screw things up so royally? It’s one thing we can always depend on to do spectacularly.