relativity in the art of spices, tiles and stones

you wanted pure form I wanted essence
compressed black and white tiles
lying 
but we wrote poetry
I had kitchen scents and spices, 
a teacup bittersweet with analogies
pouring somewhere,
the heart doesn't make overtures or
erasures
you had a barn you wanted painted
with phrases that meant more than your
words had to say, or could say without a noose
around our necks

we write these echoes of abandon with flowers wilting
dead and dying 
ripened mangoes dripping off our roguish tongues
students of 
our bodies merging, rendezvousing
parables of light and dark in hours
unforeseen,
twilight gods
awestruck in the tinderbox that is love,
swans copulating with the necks of poems,
bare trees
shivering with the death of our self-righteous
mocking Paradise, we write of stones