A Study in Bereavement

to say that i still love you
is accurate;

to say that i still know you
is illusory.

Old Friends

In the surreptitious nature of disembowlment, I found that which I believ'd lost: an anecdotal memory,

in which I am not, but there is
& according to professionals, perhaps.

But what is there, behind the frosted, tinted, ambiguous lucidity of a promise,
after all the lights are off, and everyone has gone home,

And I am left waiting for you,
but of course, I am not there
and you are; this is what
good enough is.

somewhere along the road,
I rediscovered disillusion
and it felt like running into an old friend.

A Portrait For A Missed Lady

riddled in ceramic fragrances,
somewhere the light chaces;
and opportunity turned to ashen desperation. stagnant. mesmerized hours

of bastions left dressed
in silken robes,
and yellowed abandon

i want to sing into my own ears,
because I want you to see me smile.
it felt more real.

absence is nothing.

Hope is the last thing to go down with a sinking ship,
because the sun still shines regardless of the shadows cast by sinking ships,
or wounded lovers & those on shore still enjoy a new day.

Infinite & Intimate

A single moment of intimacy,
between held fingers and
intertwined

destinies,

I imagin'd you and then you were.

In a moment, a lifetime.
In a shadow, a future.
In a smile, a promise.
In laughter, infinity.

A lifetime of always returning to you at the end of the day.

A future of endless possibilities, because with you all is possible.

A promise of always loving you more than yesterday, but less than tomorrow.

Infinity, because the only way to live, is knowing that we are forever. 

Self Preservation

Grandiosity exists;
staring back in the mirror

with eyes so piercing
that breath falters
when
they echo back
the fears
& resilience
& lavender
of the one
looking for something

to believe in.

A pool, a cave, a vast
abundance of everything
necessary,
just unblinkingly staring.

When you stare into the abyss,
it stares back,

and smiles.

First Dates

somewhere along the rotting hydrangeas you claim belonged to your mother, you held tight on to a pearl necklace. fidgety. as if the cold of the pearls was too much and you felt like blaming it on me.

a couple of bottles of wine later you were telling me 'bout laughter and how it doesn't "go" with anything you own, and because of that you feel you are owed a new pair of shoes, and for the love of god, can i please shut up?

a couple more bottles of wine: the atmosphere is changing and apparently i have changed too, because now you reproach me in the tone you reproach your father, and the lingering sentiment of thyme and cinnamon is calling me back to the kitchen, where the chef would like to stick the meat cleaver into my back, and i will gladly accept if only to get away from your unreserved and unapologetic interrogation.

more wine. more birds.
less this.

i am currently sitting in the middle of my bed; pillows and condoms and rosarys and blankets thrown about the room. i am redecorating: what do you think?

Ruminations

Sitting in a white room,
Undisturbed by windows and doors,
I close my eyes,
& I can sense your silhouette;
Your warmth, lingering all over the
walls,
And my teeth are falling out one by one,
and there, next to the floor,
I see your arm, peeking in through
the silence, and the infinite
density of all is sinking in,
deep -- right to the wick of
my bones, right into the atmosphere
of my longing.
this white room is not my prison;
it is my delirium. All nothing
and yet, everything is there.
Present.
Total.

Abruptly, everything crumbles into a disenchanted fog of clarity.
Tear me limb from limb with the
web of hair you left
under my nails.
Tear me into a whole piece,
united by the strings and the very fabric of what I was.
Disentangle the cobweb that lingers
on my eyelashes.
Tell me you want more
with the breath of your lips,
with the scent of your morals.

What is there to live for
except love?