Was it all? Waiting – while you
sweep the floor, matching the color.
Your burial in the bathroom.
Hung of hair, bottled in
teardrops, in segments of winter’s love.
It forced you to deposit. Found you
a different path into Heaven.
But you
always rained from the ceiling
with your neck. Your neck is swinging.
It is your throat I kissed.
One more to the lips
cannot bring you back.
One pair of eyes. You don’t look back.
You don’t look back.
Neither to me. Nor to the floor.
You lift, not in these arms,
bandaged now in your emptiness.
If I lost. I have lost it all.
If I have ever loved,
I have loved enough.
Your blank face. Those bare shoulders.
Even I cannot cry upon you
without losing balance.
Swinging. Hanging.
A rope, at its end,
at a life’s end.
Here is the sendoff.
There is
the waterfall for hope’s decline.
Waiting, while I
stand here, running.
Your life, a cruel beginning,
ending without a landing.
Where is our
message being sent,
when the ocean is clogged?
Full of memories.
Burning through, with tragedies.
Fatal. Petals. A rose that never dies,
when it was false.
Modern Romanticism 