luis antonio miguel love poetry poems by luis miguel

Madonna, in Living Fire

I search her.
I like to think I know her.
She watches me.
I like to think she sees inside.

It’s easy—too easy—
As she sits there, silent,
To paint her into my own portrait,
To cast her in my own play.

In that play, in that painting,
The smile she gives indiscriminately
To everyone, everywhere,
Becomes mine alone, somehow.
I steal that smile for myself.

And it’s easy, far too easy,
To disrobe her in the unseen habitations
Of my mind, where I then redress her
In the rich gowns of a damsel in distress,
Standing at her window sill—
Waiting, day-after-day,
For me to rescue her.

She plays music with uncalloused hands
Of paper white skin, themselves fashioned
(By celestial hands above) as carefully
As she plucks melodies from eager strings.

She plays music,
Music that cleanses and sanctifies
Like David’s lyre, that brings you to
Heartbreak and jubilee all at once.

Music that makes me feel human again,
Alive again—even as I lie here,
Embalmed in the ashes of a thousand lost loves.

She plays music,
And I can’t help imagining the music
She’d make for me, for our audience of two,
With the bedroom door closed and locked.

I like to think, with that part of me I know
Is nothing more than wishful thinking,
That she’d give in without a fight,
Or put up a fight just for show.

I like to think
That she’s dying for me to save her
From the safety of her posh home,
From her expensive toys, and from the
Self-imposed prison of her achromatic
Blanched walls.

When I search her, I find that
Bottled-up part of her that escapes
All others’ sight.
She tries to hide it, but I see:
The dwindling flames of a fading star.

Not so much a fallen star
As a star that was never born.
One that, after all these years,
Still harbors the hope of burning
Triumphantly, extolled by the
Constellations amid the ebon sky.

All she needs to kindle those embers
Is the spark of the right lover’s touch,
One who beholds her aspect of perfect
Contentment and perceives that, in her heart,
She wants more than contentment.

She wants a touch of danger.
A touch of fear. A touch of pain.
A touch of sin to repent of.
A touch of subjugation.
She wants to lose control for once.

The lover obliges.
The temptress is tempted.
The soloist misses her note.
The empress abdicates
And bows before her cavalier.

Let tomorrow take you back to your contentment.
Tonight, I’ll breathe fire into your star again.