I guess, I haven’t handled
complex operations, like
the removal of you,
before:

maybe that’s why I didn’t get it
right,
and now,
there are still suture stains,
scalpel tips,
leaf litter,
floating amongst my workings,
etched with your syllables.

I suppose I’d thought of
what I’d say,
if you said “come back, please?”:

if I could, no.

most likely an uncertain shrug,
before resumption,
again, following each of your tender footprints.

but, no. definitively, no.

sure enough as the sun eventually slips,
I’ll find another shadow to drag across my aching heart,
no matter how your remnants last,
stinging, to remind me,
of what I had once wanted.

another quiet song I shall sing,
this one, upon newer ears.

hopefully, not another deaf set.

you spun silk across the skyline as the frail sun
spilt, onto the far-eastern seaboard, while those
consistent clicks fell resound and washed away
down the drain behind the blanket ran to pitch
as the clamourous small hours from city centre
disband the overcast to stillnesses and grandeur
of emptied haloes, trickling with dust, so i open
my muddied lungs and laugh; for now i know i
have kept fallin' anew all along, if i think i think
i will be alright will i make it through this night?
will it be any better, in the dawn's soft light? i'm
not
                  afraid
                                             anymore,
                                                                    though.
we were star-crossed, but for one single moment:
the sky tore wide, and all inside of your ribs, the
constellations swum where once i'd only found
doubt, inside your eyes the lights played
out melodies in time, as
dawn opened up
beneath
us.

tired autonomies, days keep on flailin', seizin'; darlin', I'd
be bolder if only I'd tried. makin' plans to abandon 'em,
the dark reach and tenements of those towers of regret for
all of my inactivity or self-targeted hostility, and those dreams
meant everything to me until awakening into morning hours
or afternoon, more likely, with the dull grip of uncertainty
shudderin' all the windowpanes back and forth lightly, oh
so **** delicately, and I think about you as soon as I've
drawn up ambition to make any kind of move, the pieces of
the vast puzzle I've called your mind for the better part of
the calendar dates I've drawn up into fifteen gauge shells of
the ghosts of my past, those that follow my footprints in evenings,
the pools of aluminium meltings and lemon extractions
to constrict the summer hours, convictions that bleach out
all other chances of hope.

so relinquish your grip on my red and unfolding heart I've
been beating the syllables of your name with, and abusing
the page width of headspace, serving only to alienate the
froth on the shoreline of daring chances: I'd have given
my all at the sight of romance, but I sit here with no
glimpse of intention from you; the crestfalls I subject myself
to, not for the sake of lack of want, but full lack of what
I'd do if I called and asked where you wanted to go at
three a.m. or five p.m., or any other canonical time of
the day; I'd spend any of 'em with you, and I'd
ask, but I'm somewhat sure you're not that into whatever I
could mean, or whatever my words do seem to transcribe themselves
upon contact with your mind, so keep on existing and I
will do the same.

[or, anyway, at least I'll try]