When Patti and Robert met
they slept covered by a blanket of stars.
Art did get them,
and in the end
they let anyone who wasn’t them
sing the song of their innocence.
Flowers and birds,
hunger and passion,
gifts and symbols:
a black bow for Baudelaire,
glass beads for Rimbaud,
a poem song for Janis,
a career for Jimi,
the paying of respects for Jim,
a modest necklace from Persia.
So many others decided
what would happen to them.
Star lovers, they needed
a constellation to shine.
Yet their fate was written
in the New York City sky,
the day they met.
There are other love stories
like this one but not everyone
ever learns to truly love and keep
the distance that makes
the bond.
They did.
The light of that blue star
reaches us, the heart of youth
beating today
in memory and silver,
paper and black and white.
Flowers: windows
snapshots of who we are, still,
moving.
