She's like an old song I barely remember

She's like an old song I barely remember

that puts me back in time, back to when

it meant something, back into illusions

and fictions that I believed would save me.

She's like the way the books used to smell

when I confused their secrets, the way memory

floods the senses, how the fragments of life

resemble something different with each reading.

Let the old song move me out of history,

and into an eternal present, let the scent

of lost flowers be where I put my trust;

Let the recollections bring me salvation

beyond myself, let the magic I've forgotten

dissolve this misery I have imagined.

She reveals herself in a different form

She reveals herself in a different form,

a different body, different eyes looking

out from nowhere, different novel details

hidden in the pattern of her hair.

She discloses mysteries when I'm not

expecting them, comes around the corner

quickly with a challenge, comes around

like a patient moon in delicate cycles.

Yet I am dazzled more each time, the eyes

are of an infinite depth, the mysteries

remind me this dream is unpredictable.

But without a definition I still recognize

something of the demure figure obscured

by a temporary body sleeping quietly.

I wanted fame, money, someone to give a damn

I wanted fame, money, someone to give a damn

about my writing, a book deal, a magazine

to serve as a platform for my ideals,

and an audience that lauded my expression.

I wanted love, her, the one I've imagined

myriad ways, I've worshipped in every temple,

whose praise I've sung beneath heavy oaks,

and whose scent I'll eternally remember.

I needed it most desperately, more than

clouds need a sky to ornament, more than

grasses need the teachings of a storm.

But now that I'm older I no longer want

any of those things, just a moment of time

enjoyed—sacred, but somewhat ridiculous.