Eros made holes in my dress,
That’s why Chopin must feel so good…..
Sitting by the window, in a lavender summer dress,
I’m thinking of giving cosmic basis another depth,
The one of my heart.
I guess that’s what’s happening…
When you trust your heart without doubt,
When you let the thieves steal your reason,
And love with passion.
I smile,
It’s the beginning…..
The touch, the skin, the dream…..
But also the breath between notes,
The small hush where courage is stitched,
The tremble of a windowpane
When late light leans against it.
Chopin spills over the sill like warm rain,
And every hole Eros made becomes a star.
Whatever they meant through World Atlas, they were wrong,
As it doesn’t contain the places that I am going to,
The secret meridians only night understands.
Maps were drawn by careful hands;
We are drawn by heat and risk.
Cartographers forgot desire,
And so their borders never hold.
With you in my mind,
A world within a world,
Just mine and yours,
Just mine and yours—
Wider than permission.
Eros is careless with scissors tonight—
Snipping daylight into ribbons,
Hemming the horizon with want.
I pin a comet to my hair,
Fasten the moon at my throat,
And call it jewelry.
Love is unreasonable, yes—
A beautiful burglary.
It pockets the good silver of certainty,
Leaves wildflowers in the drawer,
And writes its name on the mirror in steam.
I try to scold it and end up humming.
I try to pray and end up touching air
As if the air could answer back.
Eros made holes in my dress,
And through them the evening breathes—
Soft wind, distant tram-bells,
The city loosening its collar for us.
Chopin moves to the slow engine of skin,
And suddenly even time has wrists for you to kiss.
I will not ask the atlas for directions.
I will fold it into a paper boat
And send it sailing across the floor.
If there is a border, it is only this:
The line where I end becomes the line where you begin,
Sketched in lavender and evening.
Whatever they meant through World Atlas, they were wrong.
We are already off the page—
You, a compass of warm iron;
I, a map rewritten by your hands.
And when the night finally buttons itself,
I will keep one star unfastened,
So our world within a world
Can breathe.
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© Andrada Costoiu and a-passion4life.com, 2020- . Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Andrada Costoiu and a-passion4life.com, 2020 with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
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