My tattoo is but days old.
Did you realize, my love, my sweet—
My heart.
(you have flown off with it yet again)
That when you spoke to me of me,
My impact on you.
My love for you.
My effect on your life–
You spoke to me in the
PAST TENSE.
Not in the present.
Not in the future.
All in the past.
Le passe compose
My least favorite tense in French, darling.
Post haste my love.
Post box full of love notes for you.
Photos of you in my phone.
My God you are gaunt.
The weight you have lost running.
Running away from us.
Running away from me.
Running away from yourself.
Running down to the sea,
Bare headed before the moon.
On your knees in the sand.
Sobbing.
I heard you there, your cries echoed in my bones.
I wept with you.
But not near you.
Tous les jours
Je fait l’amour.
Tous les jours.
All my wants/hope/dreams
All in the imperfect past.
Thus, am I to embody this grief.
My back crawls with it, the itch of sorrow.
Keening again as the crow flies.
You.
&
Me.
Bunny.
Out on a limb flowered with pain
Petals of sorrow,
Whisper soft sweet
Scratched on to my back
My back, my back, flat on my back
Holding my breath waiting for it to end.
Feeling the cold tile pressed pattern of squares
Ground into the small of my back.
I was so cold, it was so, so cold.
Like.
Sugar drowned in milk.
And then.
All the waiting.
The waiting for you.
All those years.
All those decades.
I danced down so many roads,
Waiting for you.
And now.
This journey of a thousand miles,
This journey of a thousand tears—
Leaves me with nothing to do but wipe the blood from my back.
Wipe the tears from my face
(In every flower I see your face)
Stand up, stand back.
Rise anew.
Crafted in the cloak of my being.
Ever present.
Ever perfect.
Ever here.
Croaked the crow.
Ever more.
My love.
Never more, my love.
Yet.
Ever yours, my love.
Auntiebubba 