poem: what he almost gave me was not his to give

we are not yet dust, we are still

holding on, breathing carefully; the solar

lights in the club

flickeronoff, onoff. I thought you were beautiful once

and especially, as you smiled at me more

and more, you become like art.

Your eyes turned

from drained out blue to exotica; you went up in clouds

like ghosts do at midnight,

like ghosts do on the day of the dead: when skulls

bleed odd bright colors and people

sing and almost sing and then stop.

 

And now I sit here and remember and almost accept

it: this is how it felt to be alone,

after you were a chance. I can’t even

hold

you in my palms, you drain out

like water

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s