The Chase

a poem with the sound of 88 sawtooths...for you (still)

You were dusk.
Quiet.
The songs of the day
Sung.

I was night,
My hand untying the inaudible,
Remnants of knots in my throat,
Etching them
Across fibers,
An architect
Drowning in obsidian,
My dialect needing a melody.

You became evening.
Settled.
Extended notes
Unfolding.

I became shifting hours,
Ink that puddled
On the page as you kissed me,
Bleeding me into you,
Lyrics rising,
Sweet nectar
In our throats,
A dance of steel and silk.

You were night.
Abyss.
Sawtooth waves
Building.

I was midnight,
Lunar calligraphy sprawling,
Ancient whispered incantations
On my tongue,
Circular dancing,
Raising energy,
Swimming in rings of charcoal smoke,
Our last descending lines.

I was the Moon.
Venus.
You were my Sun
Set.

— sylvia

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