Second Skin

(for Ellen, in memory of Jim Marentic)

If what is essential

is invisible to the eye,

then the Beloved is 

everywhere you look;

his obscurity,

the very

proof of him.

A lifetime

spent looking forward

to seeing that face

now has you

glancing backwards

for the slightest

glimmer.

Don’t underestimate

your being

versed in transformation,

daily witnessing

his language

devolve into it’s own

foreign tongue.

Never-the-less

you learned to speak

his music,

inadvertently

becoming fluent

in drawing down

angels 

from

aloof heights.

He, as they,

are always attempting

 to tell us

something significant

even as

their words break apart

like strings of dark pearls

scattering

billiard ball and atom-like…

If only my fingertips

could feel you forever

snug in my pocket.

Now you are saving

your lover’s place

in this new dream,

connected by a more finer

thread than any

spider could compose.

Here, his

music is a map

to him.

You follow his notes

like a trail

of confetti,

angelic footprints

tread through flour.

Dusting for prints, 

you long for a snowman,

the weight of which

stands always on your heart;

an elephant 

un-willing to leave this room

without you.

You alone

were my fate,

my disaster, my opus,

my crux, my cross, my joy,

my journey, my sustenance,

my second skin.

Peter Valentyne