Do you sometimes wonder if love generates gravity?
If you have enough of it, will other bodies
wrap themselves around you
drift quiet into your outer orbit, these wandering
worlds of wondering thoughts, dreams
unspoken, reflections undisclosed
like a dark distant platonic Pluto, far too far out
to reflect the warmth of your remote sun?
Some flame brighter than others
exerting a pull on her spark as it pulls on you
in turn, tugs hard at you, jerks you full in:
you forget if you end or she begins.
Then whose gravity is whose? Did you find orbit
as binary partners, waltzing twins serene
amongst the music of spheres
or grow so great in love, just to tear it all in pieces
where no light can escape a dread black
mass of denial, spite and fear?
Holes. So dense in pact they weigh the heart
down like worn stones in the pocket
of a tossed and drowning man,
looking towards space where her body spinning
far distant, like a long dead lost star
is warping memories of time,
memories of space, memories of the warmth
that two suns close together can bring
when they choose to sing.
And all seems lost, but not quite, for those little
stars may come, may grow in strength
may one day grow in might
then draw your strength to shed all soft light
into weeping holes of black burnt hearts
loose love from cruel bonds tight
and somewhere still faint and out on the rim,
well love’s gravity could still yet bring
that body’s cold spark in.