There is a luxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves, we feel that no one else has a right to blame us. It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution.
Silhouette drifters deliver songs to the ears of my playlist memory
some hissing in vain anger, some lilting in lusty loss, some on mute.
One such sketch of a man filtered trinklets of tuneful gemlike stars
to my eyes in naiveté, my world that had forgotten to look up in awe
at celestial showtime light o ramas for centurious eyes innumerable
and me, I owe him vision and wonder and the tickle of the unknown.
And I thought he was for me and he was mine to be so sky forever.
He lived in my skin and I breathed him spiringly in pores and lungs.
I think that is what I was looking for–someone to inhale all that I am
each morning and exhale all that I ever was at night–an airiate man.
But air was not enough and we didn’t find the child of singing songs
only the age old stories of mistrust and lies and justifications long.
And we found that out, what we wanted, what we didn’t get, what
we missed out on, only too late. Yet, we still have the time we had.
As stolen time from the unknown and unsuspecting keepers of it.
We secrete desire now, let it expire in one swift and dark, salacious
moment of ecstatic loss and losing in that space of let me out and
come with me and be mine and I will ever ache in my heart for you.