Mary,
don’t leave me.
The things we’ve seen,
the perfectly serene
tranquil hours,
thick, sweating, hazy bliss.
No.
Stay with me.
One more day of
nakedness in the park.
One more night of you
late and deep and
infinite in the dark.
One more breath of you.
You *****
I should have tossed you out
with the cigarette butts and
the empty bottles of *****
I should have buried you
in the back yard where
no one
would ever find you.
I should have
handed you over to
those shady *******
who moved in down the block.
I should have sold you.
Oh, my love!
These cloudy afternoons are
cloudy for us, tangled
in each other.
Lost!
Maybe I could live with
never seeing you again if
I could just always taste you.
I understand you
so perfectly.
The lovely flower,
Delicate,
an intoxicating
fragility,
I will hold you
so delicately.
You *****
I will eat you.
I will take you down
in restrooms;
on the beach;
on the side of the road;
on the steps of the church
with the clergy staring
upon us,
possessed and hell-promised,
in the middle of
room full of people.
I would burn the
******* house down,
Mary,
just to elicit
the tiniest bit of
glow from you.
My everything!
I plead.
I entreat.
I command, beg and weep and
I find a little more of you
absent each and every day.
Like you have dried up and
withered as
the direct result of
me loving you too much.
Words and want and sentiment
do nothing
to keep you here and
so what do I do?
I ensconce you
in plastic to
preserve you.
I roll you up carefully
expelling all the air and
secure you
with a cord.
I make room for you in
the freezer
so that you will never change,
so that I might take you out for
a few moments
at the end
of seemingly endless days and
finger you
on the kitchen table.
So that I might breathe you
in moments
when another heartbeat
seems too painful.
You help me like that.
You are looking quite
green but
that red hair, oh!
So carefully I keep you
these days
not sharing you with
anyone, ever…,
well
almost never.
I mean if the right girl
were to come along and
if she was of the mind
to understand,
open enough to
mentally grasp
the sort of relationship
that we have then
maybe we could
allow her just a bit
of the madness we share.
Or maybe if I had a really,
really good best friend
I might allow him a
taste of you
now and again.
Friends share until it
hurts to give,
don’t they?
All we have been through,
so many close calls like
that time in that
dank little apartment
downtown
when the authorities were
mistakenly busting down
the door next door.
It was a terrifying experience but
I giggle a little now
at how
when things quieted back down and
darkness fell
I scooped you up and
shoved you
in the trunk of my car and
we drove and drove
and drove.
It was summer and
hot as hell and
the next day you
started to smell a little,
reek actually and
your odor saturated the
interior of my Chevelle and so
I made sure we
traveled at speed no more than
ten miles per hour
under the posted limit,
totally paranoid with
the situation and
still as happy and rich as
I have ever been with
so much of you
bound and tied and
packaged for
no one
other than myself.
And still,
look at you.
Everyday diminishing,
dwindling,
evaporating into
nothing and
enough is never
enough.
Every time I resolve myself to
quitting you,
to leaving you behind and
moving forth
I pace the floor
sleepless,
my mind traversing a
monotonous loop that
circles every reason that I should
cast you out but
religiously returns
to the need that is you.
Mary, don’t!
Don’t leave me,
Don’t.