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If
If you are going to leave me
please don't tell me
Leave me on an early Thursday morning without sun

Draw the curtains shut
let me wake seeking your face
and think you've taken another of those strolls
you like to take alone
I will stay in bed grateful
that summer is months away

Perhaps when sunlight in July                   pierces my eyes, you would have found your way
and climb back into bed
where I drink life without sugar, black
one sip at a time
If I should wake and find that you are not there, I'll know that you have strayed - but only one of us is lost
for Richard, the boy who narrated life*

Today, leaves are falling.
“One day Aaron will watch the falling leaves.”
The first day of school arrives.  
“One day Champ’s mom will take him to school.”

Life is the story of life, says the narrator.

Life expands. The story lengthens.
The intertwined threads begin to pull apart.

Life is surface and sheen,
laughter, tears, opaque signs.
The story strains after fictive frames,
the hero’s epiphany, the villain’s inner pain,
and undreamt creatures beyond human sense.

And so myth and magic
give form to stories
that we no longer star in.  
New worlds take shape
where the story creates its own life,
an escape from "the shock of recognition."

In time the threads converge again.  
Life’s pattern breaks and needs a new plot.
The stories yield their human meaning—
maybe we were in them all along.

The story ends and life goes on.
Life ends and the story goes on.
"The shock of recognition" is a phrase that I have lifted from an essay by Herman Melville.
 May 2016 Mfena Ortswen
Stephan
.

Wednesday night you loved me
Thursday morn no more
Now my heart is broken
Shattered on the floor

It came without a warning
Just a little note
It said that you were leaving
That is all you wrote

Now I sit here crying
Loneliness I feel
What we had was special
I thought that it was real

I wish that you had told me
Just what you had in store
Wednesday night you loved me
Thursday morn no more
The glowing moon peeps
Through the floating hazy clouds
It's a quiet night.
I hope that I shall never see
An awful dreaded irksome flea,

A flea that feasts on helpless pets
And makes them scratch and moan and fret,

A flea that frolics on a lawn
Plotting mischief from dusk till dawn,

A cruel wingless menacing foe
Whose only joy is spreading woe.

I wish that one day I would see
A fleeting fleeing of the flea;

Trillions of them blissful at play
In a galaxy far far away.
I do not turn to poetry
to rescue me from memory;
on the contrary,
I conjure the red humming bee
on the bluegreen rosemary tree,
I teased when I was a carefree
boy, in the backyard,
only to roll with the punches -
aye, with the punches - of synecdoche.

© LazharBouazzi, May 2016
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