Signals to Her Heart

Out where the ocean beats its calm thunder

against grainy shores of quartz and sand,

she strolls, hands pocketed in a flowing gown

of pearl-like luminance.

I can see her with hair the color of sky's deepest night

when it whispers to the sun's widow

to masquerade as the sickle's light.

This is she.

The one who knows me as I am

though untouched is my skin.

The world from which she steps

pounces from mystery,

announces her calm beauty

like a willow tree bent to still waters.

In this unhurt place she takes her body

to the shoreline listening for sounds beneath the waves

that tell her what to do.

How great is her dream?

Will it take her across the sea?

Does she hear my heart's voice

before the translation?

She scoops some sand

with her sculpted hands and

like an hourglass the particles fall

having borrowed time

for a chance to touch her beauty.

Her lips move with prayers of grace as she tells

the wind her story;

even the clouds gather overhead to listen.

Her gestures multiply me

with the sign of infinity,

disentangled from all calculations,

adorning her face with a poetry of tears.

I am summoned by her voice

so clear it startles me.

I watch her because I can.

I know her because she is me.

I desire her because she is not me.

In all my movement, in the vast search

for something that will complete me,

I have found her

on this shoreline,

her faint footprints,

signatures of perfection

that embarrass time with their fleeting nature.

I am like the cave behind her

watching from darkness,

hollowed from tortured waves

into a vault that yearns to say

what she cannot resist.

A language so pure it releases itself

from my mouth like long-held captives

finally ushered to their home.

She turns her head and looks

past me as if I were a ghost unseen,

yet I know she sees my deepest light.

I know the ocean is no boundary to her love.

She is waiting

for the final path to my heart to become clear.

And I am waiting

for something deep inside

to take my empty hands

and fill them with her face

so I can know the rehearsals were numbered,

and all the splinters

were signals to her heart.

Autor: desconhecido