those imagined what-ifs
the safe-perfect-nevers
I keep in my heart in a closed-door-box with no
key and no hinges
desiccated and shriveled
but every so often I'll let in the sun
just enough hope to keep them alive
forever those pretty-perhapses
will stay in their box
but it is they who hold me prisoner
their wrinkled-bone-fingers
twined round my throat
reminding me always everything and forever
are the stuff of fairy tales
and if this is a story
it's not one of those

the sun rose
she never stays
but my bed remembers her
elegant legs
curving spine
and the way her eyes imprisoned me
her words drew me under

I want to give you a poem
because what can I give you
other than my words
that can find you wherever you are?

But words will not come
at least, not ones that can explain
the grasping of our hands.
words cannot fill the aching in our throats
the holes where you once hid
now are worse than empty
for in these holes there is no lacking
no. these holes are filled
with the what ifs with
solemn souvenirs of times with
you on the tip of the tongue
but
never close enough to touch
you are slipping away
leaving us scared and bound

what world is this that takes
you and leaves us to suffer?
certainly not a benevolent one
and not the jealous one of the stories even

no.
ours is wrathful and cruel
ours is a world abandoned.

When I told you forever I knew it was a lie.
Forever-that vast shapeless monster
between here and
                                whatever
why would I give you the chains
and fragile weak seconds
of that cruel jealous Lover
who never lets go
when now is more fleeting
more precious by far