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 Valentine’s Curse by Stephen Dantes

In memories kind, as much as can be recalled, she smiles  oceans  

silent treasures from fountains deep – priceless,

and loves in portions that float on air so pure, she

loves all flaw into submission, into perfection, and

touches spots so tender, so delicate, so…     hers.

Good days are seemingly endless as love’s footprints are seen

on faces that glisten, in smiles that paint portraits of forever,

and tongues that fight wars passionately as libidos

surpass levels of safety and peace carved on vascular parchment

caged in bones, far away from her trousers.

He sees his future in her, as dead beats beat into vibrancy,

 like happily-ever-after the second time, the third time

 and the fourth time, like death stalking thrills on edge

 of life, in life’s bold tease where memories create histories

 thought unbelievable, impossible to tune and untrue.

As seconds age, and peace renewed, behold;

 the birth of the improbable, dancing, and jumping to

 rhythms of hearts prancing to one sound, and lungs

 gasping for breaths out of share disbelief – a reality that

 is endorsed with nature’s blessing and trust anew.

Each year it remains, the unchanging display of care

 and need, of want and desire lavished on a mortal being

 in ways tangible, and some not seen. Each year it gets

 better, with proud kisses plastered on ambitious faces

 that replace frown lines and broken spirits, almost

Every year, except on Valentine’s Day. For as much as

 the name symbolizes, or epitomizes, or culminates,

 or at least should, grins disappear in awe at sight of love

 confronted, love with no holds barred, and

 nakedness; love exposing and violating, almost

Every year, but not on that day as she questions,

 and measures, and sinks fangs of ridicule and doubt into

 skin tense, tender, young, and love gushing in squirts of regret

 to stain the air that once was a memorabilia, air once pleasant

 in a nose now tipped red from coldness, almost

Every year – Valentines being the exception – the scorn fed whole,

 the disturb of balance that has been infected with question, question,

 question; questioning character with words as subtle as

 ‘always’, and ‘every time’, and ‘never’, and ‘if only’.

 This special day of red and white sweetness is all but sweet, as almost

Every year, except that one day, he pushes and jerks, and

 pulls and pushes, and pushes to rid self of that curse and

 go back to the fountains deep in self, hangs on to only

 promises made real – not to comforts made to fools who fall

 head first and then surrender in advent of almost.

Then the day is gone, and its back to love’s profound babble, and

 back to cuddles wrapped between sheets of pleasure and

 pain; burning passionate calories with strings strum,

 pulling pride off skin with teeth, and become one

 body, in twain, submerged in love, almost

As should have been the entire year – even on that day.

 He sinks into her vulnerability, and she dives into his fear,

 and the curse hibernates, and desires walk esoteric lines

 without apprehension, until next Valentine’s, until their

 love outplays each grace, and their fears become

An almost assassin.  They make memories fine, as much as

 can be contained, and she smiles oceans – ostentatious

 treasures from fountains within the mingle, and tangle

 of twisted love calling out to be trusted love,

 to a face that knows all love, but some.

 

 

 

© 2011; from eBook, The Love Doctor

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One Comment

  1. 7-4-2013

    I love it Stephen

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