Mourning
By Glenn Currier

I saw the woman kneeling at his grave
weeping at his premature departure.
Were her tears a liquid bridge
between their love, their passionate past
and a new still aborning present?

My heart ached for her
thinking of the way they gave themselves to each other
and to a greater cause
wondering
and hoping
his life was a small stone
for building something
beautiful.

To my abuser,

I know you will never
be attached to me
the way I am attached to you,

but dear,
that's because you are broken
and you're addicted to
projecting your pain,

and I'm here picking up
all of my pieces,
trying to heal.

Time and space, it's all moving
But what if I'm not ready to move
I wanna stay here, I feel safe here
Why are you all leaving?

I have baptized myself by immersion of studying your photograph, examining as each constituent lives under my scrutiny. I have been waiting for my brain to acknowledge the imperfections on the details of your physicality and introduce itself to your blemished deficiencies.
So far, it has already shook hands with the distance between your eyes, and the murk residing below the pair, the defined philtrum proudly standing in the middle of your nose and your mouth, the abnormal upward curve at both ends on the side of your parched lips, and the scream from your pupils that seem to sympathize with my observations.
With utmost patience, I have waited for my brain to perceive you under the category of ugly.




But I think that's just an excuse I say to myself so I could reason out why I'm still staring at your portrait after we have come to a compromise of parting.