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| God, In The Details |
Hello my pretties,
Just a poem (not many of those on here, right?) about a girl I used to live with about a bazillion years ago. The cool thing is that we remained the best of friends after we split up romantically.
Although the cliche is that "the devil is in the details," I tend to see God in everything. Maybe it's my Puritanical upbringing, but all the small, seemingly insignificant actions roar will holiness and power. ANYWAY...
In The Details, God
It was such an uneventful morning,
Me sitting at the kitchen table,
Reading.
Reading Salinger,
Dressed for the morning like you –
Pajama bottoms and a thin tee shirt.
My coffee was tepid, you had just finished showering;
I heard you enter the kitchen,
But I kept on reading,
Trying to figure out Franny and Zooey,
Trying to figure out the genius of Seymour.
You stood behind me and Salinger,
But it was my head you tilted back,
Not his,
Leaning over to kiss me,
Your red hair framing my face and sheltering my eyes from light.
In the history of kisses, this was,
Well…
Historic.
Though you had kissed me upside down at least a hundred times,
This kiss contained all that contained you.
I was seeing God, not the devil, in the details,
Feeling Him justifiably smirking at me:
A sinner of abundant evil deeds.
You, my middle-class peasant,
My fiery, royal princess,
You have become that messenger of God,
Clad in red hair and pajamas,
A svelte body carved out by a master sculptor,
That messenger of God,
Who would bring me to my knees with an upside down kiss.
Yes, you have kissed me more passionately before,
But only when you felt lusty,
Or alone.
My guilt-ridden, God-denying woman,
You have been taught to kiss as if,
As if…
As if you had been tutored in the art for centuries.
As if you were born to deliver this one kiss.
As if…
But why am I talking such high-flown nonsense,
My sweetest, near-death debutante?
You are no Joan or Arc;
You are just a girl,
Just another bourgeois bitch, looking for a 4-car garage and 2.2 kids,
Aren’t you?
Well…aren’t you?
God, my sticky-sweet sweetheart, is in all of the details;
The press of your lips on mine,
The warmth and taste of your mouth,
The red darkness from your falling hair,
The electric thrill of your hands on my head,
The abandonment of ploy or tactic (those pastimes that you love so well),
The smallest, softest sigh that ever emanated from your soul,
The end that never really ended.
Did I tell you this, my icy lover,
My desert-hearted harlot,
My mercenary baby?
You say I dream too much,
But you dream too little,
Too little to love me,
Though you fell for me in a big way,
Though you are in love with me…
In love with…
What?
I know you, my fiendish friend, my pagan babushka,
Much better than you know me.
Or ever will.
I know that this one kiss will be the last of its kind,
Because I know how you need to get high,
Because I know how much you need to miss me,
Because I know what you can never give, to me or to yourself…
The kiss, for want of a better word, lingers,
Lingers prettily, like a sweet girl in a sundress by the lake.
And one must never forsake these types of images.
Not if one cares to preserve a piece of one’s soul,
And I care to preserve mine,
Even if you are the one trying to darken me with that one muted kiss.
You have always been a demon but never a thief,
And I will always love you for knowing which one was wrong,
Will always cherish this one particular kiss from you,
Because it was you. Finally.
God, my bourbon-soaked senorita, is in the details,
He is in the radius of curvature of your hips,
In the Sunday afternoon malaise that seems, somehow, ok when I’m with you,
In the hazel that inhabits your eyes,
But quite out of touch when we forget who we are.
He will abandon us when we start to think it will all work out.
It won’t, my darling little destroyer of dreams.
It won’t…
Maybe you sensed this when you kissed me upside down as I read Salinger,
For you paused - and you never pause - just for a moment,
You became lost in yourself while you smiled at me,
Your hair casting a somber aura of sad beauty around your face,
Maybe you knew that this was the last, best kiss between us.
It did make you sad, didn’t it, my hard-candy dreamer?
But I don’t think you were sad for yourself;
Because you don’t believe in happy endings:
Only endings.
You were sad, my coke-sniffing, sultry-voiced goddess,
As sad as you had ever been,
But it was for me…
God, my almost-perfect girl, is in the details.
The devil just takes the credit.
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Posted by DentedSyke on 2009-01-14 03:11:28 | Rating: | Views: 55
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