Ripe With Love

Brake lights filter through

a mist wet windshield

turning the world into

a pointillism painting.

Verbally abstinent, we ride

in the metal womb of my sedan.

His hand rests on my middle age thigh,

a gesture more tender than sexual.

We are growing older. And closer.

Our bodies tandem,

 our minds isolated,

the radio imports unfamiliar symphonies;

instruments choreographing a sound ballet.

I am content.

I could not fabricate

peace of this kind without him.

This extraordinary ordinary

we broke ourselves apart

to build our selves together.

What satisfaction I found

once finally willing

to work beyond passion

towards compassion.

This mental climax of comfort

is deeper, more redeeming

than any religion.

I am ripe with love.

South, then east,

now descending on 56,

homeward, spraying slick on sheer cliffs,

tagging roadside rocks

with our anonymous signature in tire spit,

indecipherable from the others

but as holy to me

as the heat from his palm.

Let the whole world know it

or none but us.

We were here,

silent,

ripe with love.

H. Dare

1

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