I.
These stars, this twilight palaver, out by what used to be a Wal-Mart;
walking down streets in a fairytale, apart from you,
putting on a good show, when all I wanted was to hold your hand.
My memories don't progress like pages, but ebb and flow,
the way the river does, as it winds its way to the delta,
with rapids around every other bend.
What is and what was and what should have been are written in your eyes,
grey eyes, eyes that pierce me like lances when I gaze too long;
my self then, afraid of being naked.
I clothed myself in words, and folly; raised myself up as intelligentsia,
as protection, which you saw through so easily.
What it was I wanted protection from, God only knows.
I bend my thoughts to you, my heart and hopes searching for some message,
some sign, some carrier pigeon from the Hague,
sent to change everything in one stroke.
II.
Walking in green fields once,
somewhere in high summer
full of the growing things
we turned
and were
here.
Here?
Yes.
Now?
I want to, please, yes.
The grass was so soft, the sun an everlasting lamp,
the world so clear I could almost see through it.
How can I?
Easily.
III.
Needles, so many needles.
I should have been there
Would have been there
But I made my choices
As you did yours
And who I was then
Was not who you needed
They told me you had a death drive
Who they were to fling Jung around like that
In passing remark about you
I will never know
Here let me.
No.
Please.
I wept for you
I still weep for you inside
This burning you have given me
Imagining as it should have been
IV.
I found you on the floor in your kitchen
Alone
Cold
Barely even a ghost
I gathered you in my arms
And put you in the car
And drove
We drove out past the city lights
On into the dying West
Your feet on the dash
And your heart in my hands
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 12:03 AM UTC
I.
These stars, this twilight palaver, out by what used to be a Wal-Mart;
walking down streets in a fairytale, apart from you,
putting on a good show, when all I wanted was to hold your hand.
My memories don't progress like pages, but ebb and flow,
the way the river does, as it winds its way to the delta,
with rapids around every other bend.
What is and what was and what should have been are written in your eyes,
grey eyes, eyes that pierce me like lances when I gaze too long;
my self then, afraid of being naked.
I clothed myself in words, and folly; raised myself up as intelligentsia,
as protection, which you saw through so easily.
What it was I wanted protection from, God only knows.
I bend my thoughts to you, my heart and hopes searching for some message,
some sign, some carrier pigeon from the Hague,
sent to change everything in one stroke.
II.
Walking in green fields once,
somewhere in high summer
full of the growing things
we turned
and were
here.
Here?
Yes.
Now?
I want to, please, yes.
The grass was so soft, the sun an everlasting lamp,
the world so clear I could almost see through it.
How can I?
Easily.
III.
Needles, so many needles.
I should have been there
Would have been there
But I made my choices
As you did yours
And who I was then
Was not who you needed
They told me you had a death drive
Who they were to fling Jung around like that
In passing remark about you
I will never know
Here let me.
No.
Please.
I wept for you
I still weep for you inside
This burning you have given me
Imagining as it should have been
IV.
I found you on the floor in your kitchen
Alone
Cold
Barely even a ghost
I gathered you in my arms
And put you in the car
And drove
We drove out past the city lights
On into the dying West
Your feet on the dash
And your heart in my hands
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