The Lover (I)

There is a man with a lute
beside me, his eyes glazed in clouds
his body, lined in sunsets, perfumed in soil,
cloaked in rumpled black 
ever present, ever-awake—

Ceaselessly he strums
Even in my sleep I hear him play, softly,
my hopes and pains
calling me back, calling..

He never speaks,
his body sings through the strings
a yearning for what has gone and come
gone again…
like two lovers embraced in a dance,
spinning away momentarily
suspended by hands held tenuously 
breaths stopped, hearts beating 
lingering on this dream so sore and tender
drawn tight like the strings of his lute,
sweet and cutting
till his hand pulls back and his Beloved
spins into his arms again…
I know,
I know the day he plucks the last note 
into his Beloved
is the day
I Sleep.

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