(A love story written in 1983)

The studio,
just a gleam in our eyes
when plans slipped
out of our hands, scattered
sending us frolicking.

We staked out intentions
changing blueprints as lust dissolved,
and windows opened
to our souls.
Foundation – poured.

For months,
the sound of your voice, my muse.
Our creation unfolded
like magic barely
tolerated by reality.

The dungeon door, my idea,
embraced our mystery.
The loft, your idea,
lifted us high
on each other.

The touch of your hand pulled
me up the studio ramp,
bridging our hearts,
calming the doubt, like a pinch,
“Am I really here?”

We celebrated with wine.
You held me too long, yearning.
I suggested more insulation
too late.
You vanished.

Walls with no paint.
Ceilings with no lights.
I stand in the studio
in darkness
and in vain.

The early morning light
sifts through the arched window.
I lay my hand to my chest, summoning
our hearts to touch,
our creation to cherish.