Monday, October 29, 2012

Musing #3

The Room We're Always Never in Together


He speaks to me,
breaking the glacial silence
plastered on the walls of the room
we’re always never
in together;
clinging to his every word
holding me hostage —
swept up in the phantasmagoria
of a dream (receding) that
ofttimes dresses up the
sorrow living here — and
I tremble, trembling still.

For time has shifted
the way we once were:
him ‘moving forward’ as if
I come from nowhere,
going nowhere fast and
trying, still, to
breach the heaviness of this
love I dared to last, and
I remember … just how
he spoke to me.


In that room
we’re always never
in together,
under the full veil of night,
we lay there side by side —
arrested by the listless walls
that harbour the secrets and
crestfallen desires of two
lone, irreconcilable hearts, and
I weep, weeping still.

The counterpane bunched at our
feet, and holed up in its dark crevices
snapshots (overexposed) of the
life that used to be (blurred);
trusting in the stillness of the night
to infuse that blest calm into the
crumbling foundation of
this fractured home,
love amortized at cost, and
I remember … just how
he spoke to me.


Sunlight swarms over the darkness
of the room
we’re always never
in together,
dismantling the dream:
how could this ever be heaven or home?
And he looks at me,
looking through me, and I know
somehow everything we had went wrong;
when it’s hard to say goodbye
to those bright, smiling eyes
I remember:

What it was to know
joy’s voluptuous name
me living in you in me,
dreaming of a world
without end with you with me
separate-together, as one as each other;
and how the music as our guide
kept your heart in step
with mine.


He speaks to me,
one last time,
in the room
we’re always never
in together —
suitcase in hand
crammed with anticipated memories
of another life.

Ambling down the walk
towards the stranger in the street
and when their eyes
come up to meet
I know he’s found heaven and home,
and I tremble,
trembling still, remembering … just how
he spoke to me.

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