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Sunday, April 23, 2017

Lament in Two Parts

1. -                  so I'm sitting here,
by some distant table watching
stars dying above me
                  lights in the dark
writing a few poems; smuggling some of
their words into these speakeasies of memory;
and then I'm there
                  suddenly and you're with me on those
                  jasmine scented sheets blossoming
bodies on a single stem,
                  still growing in some part of
a loving mind,

ashamed to find myself
still reading from
                   the pages of a day
when we were achingly young
and only wanted to have fun;

and the deep red of the watermelon
on which we dined
                   that summer
on that balcony,
                  where you showed me
when the sun is in front of you
the shadows are always behind;

2. -                  so I'm down now
with the stars
writing; trying to describe the light
of day to them before
                  the night sets in,
but with the sun behind you
the shadows are always
                 in your mind; here and there

always questioning
did some part of you die from the regret,
or did you manage to forget
the scent of jasmine in the air
                  and the way she walked the garden
brushing out her hair; do you miss

                the golden crown of sun
that we wore inside of us? - and the eyes
that followed us;
moths to our flame, burning bare,
now a dying light
shining from an ancient time,

and did she ever cry
over the absence of my touch?
                  and the loss of becoming sky
as sun becomes light
to awaken poets
                  on distant tables
watching stars dying above; to show me
how light can shine
yet still be dead to time.

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