Do you remember the questions
you used to ask about dying?
About grief and then pain
that wash over you in freezing pales of regret?
Are you supposed to remember every minuscule detail
before you completely forget?

You choke on your own verses
to convince yourself
and then everyone else
about acceptance--
the magic that should lead to recovery
yet, knowing that
most poems
are just lengthy epitaphs
for all the people
we refuse to bury alive;
that most poets die
as they try to relive
faded images,
wishing they could
turn back time.

There is love in lamentation--
in how the living die with the dead;
how years of November air
become the oxygen
that slowly suffocates them,
how the things they love most
create consuming black holes
they still succumb to
long after
their beloved's faux passing.

What I'd give to see that one weekend all over again
In a film
or perhaps read it in a novel
ㅡa year's worth of tears to feel the warmth of that riverlike stream again and a half-year's worth of winter in his eyes

a half year's worth of anguish to have him watch me fall asleep in a cold rainy night again and tuck me in for a month's worth of his familiar warmth.

a month's worth of thrown up food to get a taste of the liquor in his lips once more, to get intoxicated by his touches' week's worth of sweet summer in September.

a week's worth of disappointments just to have him light up a day's worth of my cigarettes again.

anything.

or maybe a few more sticks will do.

-1-
how often come the slowed beatings
of time

unleashed by knowing
these devilish ifs
whens and buts

of roads half-built
and half-burnt

yet water still flows beneath
these eggshells of circumstance
widening to the same sea of chance

-2-
when have
the dust of men
received ear
if not by word or doing

when have stars lost light
even as the multitude of years pass
the dead shine just as bright

-3-
grateful hearts receive no ill
as unjust souls receive no heart

the head and the tail
do not mourn the body
for how fat or lean it was

how sweetly the fruit tastes
and sorely it rots

You.
Who ARE you?
You, who I have dreamed of many a night,
who has always given flight to my imaginations
and fancies.
My aspirations of an angel...
but you are lost down the wishing well.

Evanescent in form,
but always representing the same thing.
What are you?
You
are perfect.
The woman in/of my dreams,
who it seems I have never met
(...and never will).

Still... You haunt me
and taunt me with what I can never have.
So haunt me,
for I will never complain
about seeing your visage,
seared in boiled tears,
behind the lid of this eye...
...and the other.