david and ruth laskin

i have to be honest;

seeing you has always felt like
looking inside a cityscape, nightlight kaleidoscope
and i've grown accustomed
to fragility and our literal,
nanosecond dalliances.
we flicker on and off at the speed
of improbable, dysfunctional
light. i have to be honest;
i am honestly afraid
of your sorrowful sighs, and eclectic
gaze, though eerie and off in its
lissome niche, still crawls under my skin
and plants little foxgloves
where i can never find them.

you worry after events so impossible
that your aura of floral hues
giggles and reminds you
that kept-secret cardamom leaves have stayed
for as long as you asked
and let you sleep soundlessly with
midnight traffic lullabies. morning,
we both know, is tainted with the dull mauve
of my departure and now that it's time
for yours, i have to be honest;
you mustn't
grieve.

you are more than a secret
that will be forgotten with the creak
of a silent grandfather clock, and your
petals, my sweet, your beautiful petals,
still grace me in my discomfort. they
speak (have you heard?) and sing
in your mellifluous, pianist voice
of how big cities are homes to short
romances and that ours

was never baseless;

it was infinite.