I accumulate you in layers.
Your mica patina
glints on my rocks,
a silver comet sparkle
on ragged window sheets—
pages of a novel
the earth once wrote
to the sun.
The book is long
and you grow thick on me—
a heavy billfold of dreams,
money weighing my pockets
and bursting all my seams.
I have loved you for too long.
Before I recognized
the glint in your teeth,
before the sun’s rays hit us,
before I named you
as love.
It was always love,
shadowed and underground,
pressing its nose against the pane.
It was always—
the memory of geology.
The slow caress of tectonic plates.
The pace of stars awakening;
the glow of lava from my toes
into my frozen tongue.
I knew you before the sun was born,
before you came of age,
when my mineral wisdom
was still molten and young.
© Psyche Marks 2017