“If you fall in love with their soul before touching their skin, it’s true love.”
Of course I was drawn by the way her eyes lit up, and how her smile played at danger. She’s got this
way about her, whether she’s arguing Chomsky or quoting Atwood, I get lost in the cosmos of her
eyes she is magnificent.
The way her voice lifts and lightens sings a summer song and though I am more at home in the
midnight, meeting her has often made me dream of the way trees grow toward sun. When she rambles
of home and reminisces the country fields, I wonder what it would be to see through her eyes.
But who decides that love must grow a certain way? Who told us to consider our worthiness likened
to that of a rose: losing petals at the touch of a lover, always left a little less. Because being with her
has only ever made me more.
More curious. More awake. More excited. More vibrant.
More in pain. More in love. More alive.
Some believe that to touch someone is not to know them, but I’d argue that I couldn’t have told you
what love might be until she held my hand.
There was something in the way she brought heat to these aching bones, in the way her fingers
pressed poetry into the softest parts of me.
Her kisses taste like salvation
Her first touch felt like the balmy rain in Spring’s first storm.
I still feel the lightning, the way it jumped through my blood
Loving her mind is joy and challenge both, like unravelling knotted yarn. Loving her spirit, the
privilege of a piety I have never known, and her body. Oh.
You can call it blasphemy, but I will venerate her with a soul that believes that maybe,
just maybe, I have found an angel in the midst of chaos.
I may not pray nor hold a god, but I hold my love for her tightly beneath these frail ribs of mine, close
to the heart of me.
Do not blame me for your war, I was not the one that Troy was fought for.
Call me Witch
Name me Helen
I am the lover of the moon
The one whose blood
The harbinger of death
The beckoner of ships
Cry my name
With rousing chorus
I am the daughter of the sun
Toppled from the heavens
In love with the one
Who can only ever leave
Mark me dreamer
For that is what I am
I am the nebula collapsed
Author: Kathryn Herron
Author Bio: Kathryn lives in Canada’s nation’s capital with her wonderful roommate and their cat, and is currently attending Carleton University for English, Creative Writing, and Medieval and Early Modern Studies. She has an affinity for movies and television and too many books. Kathryn’s poetry frequently delves into the topics of love and pain, exploring relationships between all sorts of couples, as well as topics regarding depression, anxiety, and life challenges.
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