This just poured out of me. A poem of love, loss and loneliness.
I forget the echo of my long ago catharsis,
The last time I paid you grace in streaming words of black ink –
And black so was the coating of my soul –
If souls exist where we are crowded nocturnally, thrown an empirical demarcation;
I remember the whispers now,
When dawn creeps up from behind my ear,
And eyes were used for tasting, lost tongue for seeing your world.
We count in moons the petty eons that pass us in sweeps:
It must now be almost a year.
Yes, an eleventh-month since you first announced a deathly toll,
And with it began the slow carving away of my soul-and-heart.
The world that used to be open to me now traps me with a fallen fingertip,
I failed to try the systematic root of purgatory:
Instead, your route became mine – it is when I use periphery;
Memory serves me enough: it claims I took my role not as protégée and lover,
But as the next-in-line through default in claim to another’s throne.
Yet we know where the heartache falls,
Beyond straying empathy. To that foreign city do I run,
When my own survival crumbles
Beneath stranded messages.
Five months and six have been enough cleansing, if only the middle
Had not been splashed with the new image of you,
As moulded in my mind as in my sight – pink and grey and blue.
And my temptation tangs of some poetic justice,
Even when the just was taken from my own poetry;
Our entwining existence relies on snatching metaphors and catching commas.
It smells of sickness, this new paralytic:
My training has been written too high,
In dark, ambitious skies, whence I had drained myself for the fall.
Yet, your aspiration rises as my dream, so frequent
And so deep as each future memory returns to me now.
I have abandoned my inhabitual cloak – I will follow you at the next crescent starfall.
Until the day I can vomit away my darting inhibition,
It serves me well and paints this string of autograph itself: remembering.
You remain the singular syllable always catching the end of my