Mirla’s blazing fire

When Mirla first rose on my horizon, lightning struck,
her buxom succulence in my mind stuck.
My heart just had to have her, climb that tree,
sway in the headwinds, and the ripe fruit pluck.
Mirla of course was not her real name,
but it prevented gossip at work becoming conscious to the game.
She always called with a Spanish accent although of French heritage,
and my resistance grew lame.
Impossible, her beauty was just impossible.
Before Mirla's star briefly aligned cosmically,
it was raining on the inside,
a real every day and every night doldrum woe betide.
The rain stopped and the Sun shone brilliantly at her side.
Now I only thought about Mirla on Sundays, Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays,
Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays, only eight days a week.
Mirla only filled my every thought when I was awake and in my sleep.
Sometimes I could not even remember if I had breathed
or missed breaths, being in so deep.
Mad. No reasoning. Blazing fiery love.
Her teeth were white pearls. Her smile made your heart dance.
Her lips were freshest dew rising from the earth in the cool of the evening,
and her tongue was a live flame of the most exotic seasoning.
Nothing existed: no reasons, no me, no she, no we. Only blazing crazy love.
Mirla’s calves were two perfect doves and as she stood legs slightly parted,
her thighs sculptured all the way up, all the way up to those sailing hips.
I could hear the ocean waves splaying her ship.
Love, love. Love, love, love: blazing, blazing, blazing.
Passions blazing and ardor baring naked.
Butterflies of sparks floating.
Mirla’s perfumed skin the softest smooth,
and I called her my delicious french girl,
from the islands she was, her voice musical soothe.
Afterwards, motoring miles away, I could still taste her lips,
honey pineapple dip of delicate sips,
fluffy like a bunny from pelvic floor to buccal roof,
at pleasures door ever more.
Seismic heat her constant beat.
Hot and sweet. Hot and sweet.
On her wedding day my music ceased.
My heart floundered, a beached beast.
Some months later, Mirla called to meet in the park.
I met her there just after dark.
We sat by the fountain like burning firefly sparks.
I kissed her goodbye, she smelled invitingly delicious,
Her lips warm with a heartbeat swarm.
Mirla called again that year, on old years night and,
with a bottle of red wine we drove to the beach,
where we were way less than arms reach.
For ages pain my heart did beseech and,
I am afraid there was some leach.
Some years later, I saw Mirla in a northern city,
and not to be deliberately pithy, I pretended not to, pity.
My heart had been unwhole for way too long,
broken pieces only recently mended.
I was not again about to rend it.
The music had started to play again by this time and,
to Mirla, I had built a resistance sublime.
For me, or so I liked to think, the Sun had set on her rhyme.
In my heart was no wrath and I was now on a different life path.
I eschewed bling on shiny happy middle rings.
Those were songs that I did not sing.

12/27/2022 Knight Truelove Poems