Bronze to purple to red to greenish-yellow to bronze again
Your kisses wilt into my skin
And- for one final time-
The poison seeps into my veins;
Intoxicated, entranced, and utterly alone
I lay paralyzed
A slow upward climb before inescapable decline.
I watch the rotations of the stone-
I could have sworn it was a boulder-
Rolling from the top of the hill,
Farther and farther and farther still,
Kiss me.
With your antivenom,
Let me be free
To chase it and drag it and push it back up.
But before I lean in and resign
To claw back through the mudslide,
To let each falling tear drop be dried,
To stand tall in white, the blushing bride,
And swallow 3 ounces of unbottled pride (every two to four hours, of course),
I hear my mother whisper.
I catch a glimpse of it in my periphery,
Rolling hills and tranquility,
There it is–
The other side.

Ours is something
To be explained away;
I love you
But– I think to myself.
I love you
But– there will be a day I do not.
I love you
But– I do not know what love means.
I love you
But–

You gifted me a vase
Rose, iris, baby’s breath, chrysanthemum
In purples and pinks and whites
They wither quickly
Alongside the spider webs in my closet,
They crack and brown
Buried in the darkness of thick winter blankets,
Hidden within the folds
Of that green dress I wore
They rot.

I stay awake until
The old clock ticks in silence,
Sound bouncing off empty corners and into the abyss,
I unsheathe the vase from my closet and hold it up
To the yellow-orange ceiling light,
Blinds drawn tightly,
Damage control;
“Live, please, live. Just a little longer.”
I press my nose into it,
And baby’s breath becomes hemlock,
Iris into nightshade,
Chrysanthemums now oleander,
And the roses–
Stay roses,

I press my nose into it,
Tears replenish dried water,
Feeding the poison,
Dying, slowly, in darkness.

I love you
But– this cannot be love.
I love you
But– I have not sacrificed,
Have not pained or labored or suffered,
I love you
But– If this is love
Then what have I known?

Ours was something
Of swimming pools and summer air,
White boy indie guitar,
Art museums and coffee,
Flowers, book stores, paint drops on your cheek,
It was leather car seats and upstairs lofts,
The frantic finding of fabric
As doors creaked open.

I bury my face into purple roses,
I swear they smell of you,
“I love you, I love you, I love you,”
A million times,
“I love you, I love you, I love you,”
Until the words melt
Into a meaningless sludge,
No one to hear them,
Sound bouncing off empty corners and into the abyss,
I love you
And–
I am leaving you.

The sun once rose to bless our mornings
By the pond and olive grove
Breakfast cooked to feed the masses
Boiling over on the stove
And on the grapevine there did grow
Amethyst clusters, picked in light
Heavy gems that hung so low
I stood to marvel at the sight

And in the noon,
The earth would swell
With jasmines scented sweet as honey
And of troubles, one could tell
But never were they quite too many
Birds would open their beaks to chirp
Without much compelling reason
For in the open countryside
It was grape picking season

Or, at least, it was supposed to be
Yet for some reason, unannounced to me,
This year, the grapes, they will not grow.

In that moment, They said to us,
As though it were the word of God
Through biting mouths lined with silver:
“You reap whatever it is you sow”,
But the vine still hangs wilted and yellow
And the grapes are shriveled
And will not grow

The sun seemed in distress this morning,
With burdens it could not express this morning.

The fields are black and burned by dawn
As dove’s wings melt and regress this morning.

The Earth has paused in its rotation,
Though none shall truly confess this morning.

Where have you gone my love, oh where?
I search for you nevertheless this morning.

A love I no longer possess this morning
Has returned- the last time- to bless this morning.