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By Ali Date: 2007 Feb 09 Comment on this Work [[2007.02.09.15.52.27156]] |
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It was a strange mourning, a near-death that was not death, but worse, absence. The lament formed itself, a shroud, around my heart--too many pleas arrived to deaf ears and mute excuses. The chaos was then only mine, a price for an infinitesimal triumph, and there was nothing to be done, for me-- I was inconsolable, a wreck of intersecting emotions: blame, guilt, love, and loss-- there was no winter, except in the exile of your departure. I could only accuse myself, then, and anger would arrive too late to rescue me from the ache, and in the spiral of all, there was no solace, no sound, only a sarcophagus of what-ifs, and well-carved flaws. But I still...I still have your picture. What do you say now? This is a backward romance, an abandoned apology that I condemn, but-- still, I wish to hear it. My reasoning, now, is merely rhetoric; no wall of brick or steel, but a cheap show of smoke. I am not who you knew, not wholly, but secreted in pieces that you'll understand, as if you were a refugee at the last remaining respite, before Nirvana: no, these are not illusionary offerings, but you must unmask the truth carefully, not simply because you owe it (which you do), but because this is a world away from what you've known, and the touch you had of me was only just a coy beginning. |