Il torrente

The river running beneath my window
murmurs at the falling rain drops
entering seamlessly in the waves
and it sounds like a morning we might have made
together
I can almost feel your heat thread into me
the insistence of your arms around my waist
and the blue grey light would wrap our bodies
still tangled in ends and beginnings
but this was a chapter from last night
when my memory mixed with mystery
and the night showers brought my mind
to a sort of dreaming that shouldn’t be allowed
I had become skilled at silencing the loud
aching of a heart that serves only to make a beat
for all the rhymes I pretend to be only dreams.

Will we ever stop this wondering
of what would happen if we were to
wipe the dust from the illuminated covers
of little books that we wrote together
on how to live a life unrequited
could we scrub the dirt from the eyes of our dream
we buried in the yard in the shadows beneath
the big oak and the knobbly white washed beech
they used to see everything
these eyes that opened for the first time
in the wake of a love
that moved the Earth in the grasping Ides
of the March of my first kiss
is it possible that we were blinded
by our own unpredictable plot twist?
Or maybe that we never even wrote it
the resolutions that we never saw
so we unraveled, we untangled and rolled
up all the love in our little world.

I wonder often if you are scared
because I am terrified of waking up alone
with the midnight memory of what happened in my
dreams
we once almost succeeded in creating something real
a drop of rain that perfectly intersected a wave
a story printed, bound, and saved
a stitch that brought together a broken hour of time
a dream that is a reality as much as a rhyme

I get this feeling that I could never let this truly unravel
so I spend my nights dreaming in time travel
hoping that when I wake we are finally together
listening to the outside songs of the weather.