I miss the person I used to know
when I would lay on the white sand beaches,
watching the smallest smiles, seeing
the violin strings warble out
The person who could run down the streets barefoot,
not worrying about the splinterings of life.
(Your flesh was softer than I remembered,
and I wondered at the cuts and abrasions,
like measures of Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms.)
I miss the person who taught me to scream,
I miss the person who would jitterbug enthusiastically
in the soft and silent heather fields
The one who would teach me not only
to see the curve of a hand in the shape-forming mists,
or a coming thunderstorm in the clouds,
or the outline of a white-dressed mountain
through the roiling bubbling gray fog.
you showed me how to see
a roaring, coughing, spluttering,
how to spy it winging its way through the air
like some great metal bird
with rusty iron wings and
copper veins, staining the blood green,
how to hear it pumping with the strong beat of
bass fiddle arteries,
African drum atriums,
tango bravo capillaries,
a wheezing accordion heart,
see it all roaring with the noise of a metal-painted dance,
and you show it to me,
and then you take it,
your mouth twitching into a smile,
and turn it into something
soft, gentle, and melodic
by your very presence,
and the way your hand is moving very slightly to the side.
You turn it into something sweet and slow,
somthing jazzy, blue,
you turn it into something to dance to.
And, oh, you
do you miss me, too?