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Sunday, August 04, 2013

In Memory

I always return to that place of ours;
but it is no physical building,
or street, or corner ever turned,
nor is it the roads we walked
that eventually led elsewhere;

it is not that tiny hotel room,
where we would stay for hours,
with no heated words voiced
before souls first burned
their breath into the air;

it is nowhere, and everywhere;
this place where I carry you with me,
like a kitten hiding under my shirt,
precious, spiked and trembling;
you are a stolen, living thing,

heart-raging and burrowing,
yet still always warming;
a veil of purrs that hide
the stirring claws that hurt
alone in the remembering;

this is where I keep you most,
in memories that stab the mind;
or words that build a fort
to barricade in a heart lost
or fit for deserting;

and there is no subtlety to living;
knives are the only cutlery
you have for dining on the days;
and you lose yourself in the eating
as the hunger slowly eats you away;

where time either goes too slow,
or too fast for you
to catch its poisoned arrow,
just before it hits you
merciless and unkind;

it is at these moments I find
and lose you all over again;
and all the wrongs done
are a rope that tie us bruise-bound
to separate poles pulled apart;

and there is no way to start
as we had begun - tiny children
knowing so easily what to do;
for we grew up and quickly forgot,
or simply ceased to know;

so I return to these places
of ours we left wanting,
with and without you;
I return always forgetting
how hard it is to remember you.

From the collection: "From Paris, In Love" (Turkish Vistas) >>

Read more from After Love >>

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