with a glimmer of passion
with a sweet wish in her heart
nearer to him, she moves,
softly whispering into his ears
"this isn't a poem
about dinosaur bones
or bones buried against clay
but this is my map of you
loving warm and gentle
which no degrees of separation
can take away"
all the while feeling him-
his pockets, for that matter.
barely listening to her
but knowing her intent
he moves away
"our house is gone
which you burnt down
out of jealousy, you ought to
say thanks that the money hasn’t
gone somewhere else
but wisely invested with your sister
you accused me of having an affair with her"
he doggedly goes on, walking away
"previously I wasn't but now I do wish to"
Many of the lines have been taken from the Read Write Poem title collage collaborative work. It was fun doing it. To use the titles in the form of a poem is a mighty task. Do check it out.
Suddenly out of nowhere, I started to write this. When my mind said write, I had to. And now I know why..... Poetry, prose, I don't know what to call it.
Icicles form on the walls invisible to all but me. I notice because I feel the coldness seep into me. I grab your arm, which is not there. At least not for me. When you speak, I shut myself in savouring the words. Merging it with my thoughts. I have memories of the stupidest things. Like the way you slurp you tea. Or scratch the back of your head. Forgetting the important ones. That is, your plans about our future. Which excludes me.
Regrets. What of it? Words I did say? Or the words you didn't hear? Does it matter? And in what form? Solidified? Out in the open is claustrophobic for me. I can't breath you there. With everything that is beyond me, I did what I could. I did what I had to. Looked at you. With closed eyes. Spoke to you with non-words. Common courtsey compelled you to compromise. If only for a while. You were there talking to me. I was there, not breathing.
In the book I never wrote, you are forbidden territory. Familiarity of it consumes me, splitting my guts. Reality of the imagination is the mirror of my thoughts. Locked in the attic with a rusted lock and non-existent key. Serves me right, wouldn't you say?