The months are long,
they trickle not as sand in an hourglass
but as stalactites of ice,
voluptious, languid, bitterly cold.
I do not remember you every day
but some days
I can remember nothing else.
If I repeat you
and the mistakes of my life
it is because the space left in your absence
is too great.
Is it a mistake to occupy?
To switch the object
of one’s attention
when nothing can become of it?
–
Lopsided conversations
and instincts snuggled with disaster,
no one ever speaks of options.
There is only the having and the not having.
What becomes of a love
that cannot find its mark?
They will not leave me
these wistful, decadent dreams.
They kiss me each night
and each morning they rise up
forgetting that you are not here.
Do not leave me with the world.
This world which is in the process of forgetting you
is no place for our love.
Mindlovemisery's Madhouse 