i could write a book about absence and loss.
yesterday, i chose to etch into distance and memory.
both last just as long as the other two, but replace what isn’t with an overwhelming is.
why do we pay for love?
the cost of affection is change,
what a sorecery it doth create:
the void-made intimacy breeds intolerance.
a silent man no longer sits within himself, working his way into forgetting–
in tenderness, awaiting.
a not so silent woman stops berating herself, listening to the wind for its abating–
of bliss, undaunted.
another man’s television easily ignored when eye’s focus is on fight,
pouring his bitterness into glass.
carving a fortress into a cave,
staved off their dreary utility,
the shadow of omnipresence befell them.
with a cold beckoning
(just as every story told before, and again)
lovers will always embrace escape for its warmth.
Did he not see?
Privileged reluctance bent itself disdain
causes loss of what is left,
sweetness will always feel like a shudder.