the truth about trust

my natal fear is that
of being prised apart
with the economy of wind
against october leaves.

when she departs
the bedroom
my hands occupy
themselves with the salt
of her gone flesh;

while in the forest, at night,
trees are made recumbent
following the swift
ejaculation of windy-ice.

the moss and earth,
exposed at her felling,
are flipped up and fanning;
this alluvial, dark spread

confronts the fool
whose curiosity after
the storm took him
to where he lost the moon.

i'm merely being cautious,
making myself ironic,
deciphering all the new
coded perforations in my skin.

she is
as she ever was,
standing unabridged,
full-lipped, free and
considering;

a magnetic stone,
air within air,
water within water,
consistent as time

and swaying in no
other direction than mine,
bending to a cause of her own,
deep-welled and flourishing.

so her departure
is departure not,
but a ranging out
to find sanctuary.

only to return,
emboldened by
certain answers to
her own selfsame
fears.

it all begs this question:
do i find my own self deeper in
by dint of some dark
magical summons?

or do i find myself
out from the sheer
exertion of will against
the tide of calcifying angst?

i believe in love
and her attendant
earthly endowments
of flesh and blood;

i believe the river of
a lover's touch runs
a course over all
the minerals of this soul

and goes dry only
when the tears are
denied their rain
upon the wary heart.