Damn,
just your voice,
an elixir.
Seven years and that sounds perfect, like some lucky number. A
completion.
Some long journey absolute circling back.
But I'm trying not to
do that-
to reduce right away, like I am, to
the meaning, supreme- like I want
to.
I'm trying to
keep my cool.
And each slight pause, I'm panicking
to keep it going,
keep it coming,
say enough
but not
too much.
I've never been good at that.
But just yesterday, a week ago,
a year ago,
I couldn't breathe
or bear the thought of never.
So,
the sliver lines like silver
the cloud
that's lingered, holding downpour,
waiting, of all dreams of day. I''ll be the first to
say, it's
less than sane, but it's always been that way with
you. Every cliche I've
ever worked to avoid
crashes bold and unashamed
confessing in the beat of leaked tenderness. Across lines, can
you tell?
Who's the junkie now, paranoid and high?
Oh, that great man
who knew so much, who said of this before me,
what was once behind me, brings to mind the revelation of what was always there.
He spoke to me,
and the great man you held in wait, severed by,
let's call it,
fate.
Sluttish,
slow and slip of tongue, of life stinted.
I'm softly exhaling
that torrent
of torment
to inhale a new, less
potent fragrance
in all its impossibility. Can I trust my
mind this time?
Keep talking, I'll keep listening, afraid to say goodbye.
Why are you not here?
I'd fall
flat with my words
and on my face
before
I'd let you go again.
Write at the Merge
