that old song
stuck in a groove . . .
flashbacks
You occupy half the space; your smile dominates the composition. I look happy—must have been—I was holding hands with you. Here we are in posterity between my finger and thumb. How have I become so numb to file you in the circular file, to banish you from this time and space, to leave behind what could not be, to set aside what you meant to me?
Turn the page. Another display of happy faces, you half dressed, my hair a mess—nothing like obliviousness to paint a carefree picture. Two criminals of love, abusers of each other’s lust, nightmares passing in the hall, emotions bouncing off the walls. “They’re the perfect couple,” others said.
If they’d only read between the lines, watched the tears drip from our eyes, peeled the masks from our pasted smiles, traveled a while in our pain and fears, got a good look at what’s etched inside.
dream castle
my bones too frail
to scale the stone
My Queen—your face framed with gold . . . heart so heavy, I could not hold it—we clicked for a while, got sick for a while, shutters closed on the grand hotel; we fell into a spell of disrepair.
So, here we sit in the kitchen, scattered as we always were. Bits and fragments of laughs echo off the ceiling. I’m in this for the healing, so don’t mind the mess. I’m clearing off this table—letting go of the emptiness.
a blink—
your face
slips out of focus
