Without Them

People say not to write about clouds,
but these were thing and scrawled across the night sky
while I drove down the interstate
racing against every other car to get back
to you.
These clouds were scripted in Arabic
quite beautiful and isolated in the sky
I read them right to left finding
they knew my truth, too.

Writers frown when mentioning love
but I sat in the chair and stared at tree tops
and you built that fire for me;
starting off small and by the time I refocused
it was huge, hellacious.
The people who said you didn't love me
were liars
and thieves.
Never listen to marauders.

We don't have to talk,
just be near me.
You don't have to entertain
in fact, I want to be alone--
but I mean,
the others have to go--
you should stay
I want to undress with you.

This side of the fire is phenomenal
as I work the teeth out of a deer jaw bone
and you stare skeptically waiting for me
to be mischevious.
So it's true that you don't trust me?
I trust you.
What do the clouds tell you?
You can read them if you try,
and I think you know the truth anyway.

(Compost Heap, 2010. RD)