The chilly autumn air waxes and wanes in strength
by the slow-moving sleepy waterway.
Gondolas float leisurely up and down the river,
leaving gentle ripples in the ever darkening surface
and making the drifting braziers nod with every undulation.
I can feel the smoldering heat from my
seat on the cold stone banks of the river,
watching the crackling pops of wood throw sparks into the air.
I told you then, of the scars the littered my body
of the despair and despondency that put them there,
and of the hate that nearly put an end to me.
With the most tender of touches you held my face
and caught the tears as they trailed down my cheeks.
When you held me in your arms that night,
I was surrounded by the fire of your existence
burning hotter than the flaming river,
burning brighter than the sparks that fluttered down
to settle on our cheeks
like a red-hot snowflake’s gentle kiss.
Your lips have burnt away the fragments of those atrocious emotions,
and with fingers locked together
you made manifest the passion I thought
I had locked away for good.
Oh how fortunate am I of all
to know you who wipes clean the slate,
remembers the marks and calls them proof of strength.