full circle, nearly, although
i'm not sure around what
it is i seem to be revolving,
for i am not moon, nor star,
nor planet nor body of astral
importance; i am a boy, and
even then, the definition could
be more secure than it is, for
i am not a ship, i have no anchor,
nor sails, my starboard side is
used for writing and my port
is lost in the stormy blue of
the stripes on your dress shirt,
those matching the woven bracelet
i still haven't had the heart nor
gall to remove from my wrist,
like a watch, hands however
not spanning minutes or hours
ticking off each grain of sand
to fall,
[like taking inventory of eternity]
but pointing incessantly
back to you again, though you
are not the true north i seek, and
a wristwatch has no real business
dealing with dimensions beyond
its design and understanding.
a compass is perhaps better
suited to my purpose, though
the bearing would be thrown
by the lumps of iron remaining
beneath my skin, like braille,
and i the blind man groping
for a means -- any means --
to decipher the message left
hidden in my very fibers
by the electromagnetism
of your goodbyes.
if ever i needed you it is now --
and still the portal you promised
is closed, and no music sounds
for me as it did for you, for it
is you who has quieted it.