calypso withers away in a lonely island —
a blunder away from crumbling
at the sight of seaspray and empty towns.
sweet one, this isle is too small
for heartbreaks too big and soon enough,
gods and grecian men
and sad, sad, dead-eyed boys
will be greeted by a mayhem of sobs,
like flies dispersing off a dead body
held together by skin —
pale,
porcelain,
dead —
skin, stretched across these bones,
like the sea stretches across all of its sadness —
and ogygia, a lost isle,
disappears —
a speck of black in a shade of teal;
a pity your heart is not big enough for these sorrows
and not small enough to vanish.
and perhaps, betrayals do not come from
temporary lovers but from your skin
stretching, growing,
making room for years of blunders
until y o u are
n o
m o r e
but a name baptized in the wrong side of the war
and caught in a blunder
thousands of years too late.
it's been a long while;
the sun remembers your smile in his death bed, sweet one.
