Release


“I’d like to think, dear sir
that his eyes are made of stars.
But of course,
that’s just me talking.”

“It is time to move from this place,
this space,”
Release says, showing up
at my doorstep.

He tells me what a mess
I have made of my room,
as he moves through piles of clothes,
on the ground.

He begins to arrange my bookshelves,
discovering,
disposing of unsent letters
that hide themselves
between pages,
as secrets.

He changes my sheets.

For at night, I sleep
on moons.
And hold stars close,
for want of your skin,
your lips --- a lisp,
whisper, in my ear.

Next,
I hear
the breaking
of a wine bottle
the splashing
of paint
over walls,
over you.

At last, after madness –
a rage!
He leaves,
and silence hangs
in the air.