You swallowed everything,
like vastness, like distance;
you were a void that eroded time,
sucked it in, like a belly tuck before a camera-shot.
You’ve become the grayness of half-rememberable things,
you populate your mournful lament with the very air
Without you, I feel deserted,
silent like an ocean with no gales.
You’re not here, in this place haunted by nostalgia,
where no polythene bags trace the wander of pacified winds,
where no vagrant walks this acre of remorse
with torn shoes and piss-stained cardboard—
where the punk walks on cracked tar
with nothing but a growl in his belly
and an unfinishable prayer on his lips.
You’re not here where the lush petals of
regret kiss my lips,
and their intangible thorns
shred and lay waste to my heart—
like the springing of barbed genitals.
In this place—this wastebasket of memory—
this hollow speck of pixel debris,
from which skirling skies
float under the buoy of broken wings—
that bower where song birds grow sullen;
owls hoot a death impending—
mourning, long into night and late into grey dawn.
That tomb where my last counted sorrow
deadens and curls around my certainty
like mists coiling around headstones in a graveyard,
it fills with grief— and it numbs the pain—
And in this place of counted sorrows,
I hope to follow you there.