THE CLOSET MYSTIC

the touch of fate

is a strange thing:

she grazes your lover

with the tip of her finger

then suddenly:

she is sand 

through your arms,

dust in the wind.

yet your lover’s ivy

does not leave too–

no, it sprawls 

through the chambers

of your heart and mind

the ones you thought

were well and truly locked.

love, love, love:

its illusion is this:

seeing eternity,

where your love

is a heart drawn,

initials enclosed,

by the sea shore

with your fingertip

in the sand.

One wave:

all it takes.

but i will fall

for this ruse

every time.

i will fall

eagerly.

yea.

i will fall.