The Longing Silences of Love

 

It is only in silence we can hear the heart in love beating for two & in that inner mirror moving as one side to side perhaps waking on a balcony overlooking a 13^th century paved yard now filled with the scent of paella and egg dropped pizza found in the Barcelona away from the fumes of the center and more modern streets –

But love moves silently there, blurred perhaps in the smoking of the lungs of the heart beat & the city dust with tires tired of circuitry and radial geometry endlessly dazzling the map of the heart, which longs for the certitude of an image of longing that will arrive at its destination.

Silence too, in its longing to nuzzle – like a forgotten silk nosed mare, in its standing in the old snow of the mountain grass overlooking the squalling wind and blue sea swept white, longs to find its mate, mirroring soul to silent soul.

There, on the balcony or the road of circles, or on the hill the silence of love portrays itself in its mirror without distance, without time, has no measure, and if alone has no measure of its longing pain.

In its paean of longing, it mouths its syllable less moan, no noun or verb can fathom its depth, which perhaps is buried deep in its soil, its soul longing for faith or the duende of dead poets souls, which fill the city like not yet  forgotten ghosts.

These loved filled hearts without duplexity can merge in some completion with that ghost ridden city, and find walking into the medieval alley ways, in the saffron taste of the bartering tribes, their likeness.