‘Feverish forgiveness’, you whispered before me,
the goddess shrouded in gratification,
melting in a moonwave of love and hate.
At the altar,
all smoke in the chest and burnt brandy in the throat,
you smiled as the blood went down your softened cheeks and was welcomed,
at the sunken chin,
by the hope that I would know what you meant.
The crescendo of the expectation held itself in your trembling chin
and you repeated it again – feverish forgiveness – and I wanted to ask how you knew
it boiled my blood to relinquish the sword but scolded my heart to pursue it –
and so in feverish forgiveness we stand before the almighty ‘I do’
and the blurred, no, marred, yes, charred gratitude,
with which we melt into moonbeams of love,
forged by a hate hardened by our holy cheeks,
unwelcomed by our lofty chins which hold in them a steel expectation,
an always burning crescendo.
-SARU MILLER //16 MAY 2017