Statue and other poems


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An image interposed in the
dialectic of you and I.
That shakes me.
That I cannot shake.


Perpetuating fears
of interminable longing,
of you.
Like the others.


The perennial ghost
inside the light of day.
Ephemeral existence for
my eyes to look past
what my mind forces me to see.


The day burns the material
from her fragile frame
But with night, she gains strength.


As the last rays of light are
forced from my pale tired eyes
my somnolent soul,
can no longer
fulfill its’ nightly duties.


Existence surmised by half-slept
broken by interludes of
conversations with myself.


She, the nightmare I have,
that sleep no longer justifies.


I am blocked in my path
to you,
by an interposing statue
of a woman,
who does not really exist.




I remember that everyone at school said you liked me.
I remember that I said you didn’t.


Shrinking smiles and crossed boundaries
of friendship and defeated silences.
Memories of every inaudible murmur
that stemmed from every muffled moan.


Awkward conversations.
Hours imprisoned by fabric partitions
of trepidation and ignorance,
separating skin from sin.


Shaking at the sensation
of fingertips closing in.
The ebullience of innocence
and extractions of fear.


Drug induced hypnotic states
that magnetized me to you.
Late night experimentation
and cathartic chemical changes.


The elations of proximity,
and the desolation of distance.
You went away.
And everything good perished.


A glacial stranger drawing in
to fill voids of departure.
Inevitable returns with Spring,
bring renewal, and reordering.


The resolution to move on
to unaccustomed associations.
Unspoken contracts of homecomings
to inevitable storybook endings.


I remember the pain encased in every moment of every day
and the depletion of words to emblazon
the pages relied upon for my restoration.
I remember despising the routine of survival.
I remember visions of a future, blocked.




But then
I remember


Sudden shifts of realization.
Comfortable existence within
the flesh of others
giving newfound gratification
and security,
in unanticipated normality.


Until I found out.
You’d done it first.


I remember knowing I’d never feel the same.
I would,
but it would always be different.
would never be the same.
Vulnerability now encased, hardened
by new veneers of experience.


I remember when you met someone else,
ousting the last grains of delusion
from the velvet pouch
that I had kept.
Just in case.


I remember realizing she was wonderful,
and your parents loved her.


So I opened the book one more time.
One more set of words.
One more time to grieve.
The concluding chapter.
The last word.
The final flicker
of the first flame.

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