On being forgotten

The morning breaks with soft breaths
on the pillow beside you.
Some foreign lungs pump the time,
some other nose, some other mouth.

And I fail from within to let go of the little world I chose to break apart. What half words, what precious form, what lines of ego, poor ego, poor ego? Poetry? Poem? Poet? No. No skill, no vision, no art. Just a deep down woe is me not worth a rabbit’s heart. What do you say when the true meaning splits words like dumb skulls? Mistake? Was it a mistake? Did you make a mistake? Yes. No. In what frayed strand of future tense do I reside when you ask it? I’ve lived inside my mind so long my vision clouds. Ask me when the shower runs dry and my hair feels like wheat at harvest. Ask me when I’m stripped down to my barest. Ask me when sleep eludes for a third night: where would I lay my head to find it. So I’ve lost the comfort of a kindred heart. Now the hands that touch aren’t mine, and when I remove my frightened selfish mind, I wish her the finest. What? No abstraction? No hidden sign? I’ll leave that to an artist. Plain fact is: there was a world, and I left it. All there is to do is sew my lips shut and move on in silence.

The morning breaks with playful whispers.
Some foreign heart entwines,
some other lips, some other smile.

There’s a new world taking root,
and I’ve no right to know the language.


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