A poem for Emily

The beauty she carries,

not hard to explain,

like the breeze:

its strength lies in the constant breath of its blowing.

The heart I stole

was never mine.

Passion, desire, love?

Hard to explain.

Stolen.

Not from its owner,

but fragmented.

Taken from yet another soldier,

dressed in projections;

a borrowed mask.

Still, I feel

guilty.

I, too, have once been

defeated.

Ah, yes, affection.

Redoubled.

Trust, held captive.

Daydreams on restless nights:

you and me.

Restricted hearts

prescribe our stories.

Our story of friction and conflict,

laughter, caresses, and naked bodies,

moments of peace, of shelter.

Your braids, your shades,

laughter, sighs, and sounds.

Breathless,

and the burning desire

to forget

through pleasure.

The fears

and our little escapes.

I wish I could give you my heart.

Complication.

For it is not mine to give.

If only you could love me,

perhaps find the pieces,

fit them together,

and bring our hearts to peace.

Perhaps then I could remove

the armor that takes your breath away,

expectations that seem

only to postpone,

never to end.

I wish I had the answers,

had won the bets.

To give you

not only gold and treasures,

but also restore

the peace in your eyes,

the certainty

you so desperately seek to find.

The future is always uncertain,

not only for lovers,

but for everyone.

After all, we are wanderers,

intolerant,

arrogant.

And even so, if I can be

the companion to your pain,

you can be

the sheath to my love.

So be it.

Whatever fate may choose.

And even so, while it lasts,

may we choose each other

without questioning.

And who knows,

perhaps fall in love.