She was only ever a spectator in my life.
And I thanked her for that. I loved her for that.
And when my memories shifted,
I hated her for that. I despised her for that,
With a rage that overwhelmed my senses, coloring the black
of my eyeballs. I couldn’t really see for the anger. And I sang
of her, I sang to her. Memories made in the coldest winter. In
my imagined reality I was up there on the stage,
lips moving, tongue slinging, hands in that familiar motion,
sliding. Her dress white and patient. Good-bye my friend, I will
never love again. I couldn’t hear her as
she helped me to my feet,
her flame enveloped me, with its movement,
subtle, sweet. I couldn’t read the smiles that laughed
out through her cheeks, but still her presence
called, and I watched myself proceed.
She used to speak about the dazzle of love fusing
with the wonder of being alive, existing, spinning
moving
her, in general. I didn’t move.
I used to peer into the fading peaches of my closed eyelids,
loving the way her hollows fit into mine, the way her bones
contained the gentle pressure that shook my curving spine.
I used to marvel at the wide sheaths of sunlight,
filled with waltzing dust particles, that would slant over her.
I don’t do that anymore.
I don’t repeat her name as I strum down
the open chords of a closed guitar. I am no longer a shearsman
of sorts. Though the day dawns green.
Things as they are
are changed upon my blue guitar.
Not for her, though. She listens to music, absorbing it into her bones,
her chipping white marrow, the arrows that settle on the grass,
but it is no longer my song she hears.
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