Leftovers from stories barely touched.
friend, I should have loved you
like water –
pour fountains over your cupped hands
pray a smile is all it takes
to remember.
Nobody really knows the language
of a final moment,
there are no markers
to delineate the last time you share a world.
Heartbeats are not prophets.
I watched you foray into the unknown and
I thought to myself, “the drift will circle
him back to me.
We will laugh at his fooleries
over a plate of weevil-infested beans
and one more sultry joke.”
I should’ve known – just now, Kings
are dying like flies.
Tragedy is a probing finger, steeped
in oils too heavy, too dark –
my city is a overactive graveyard
You, my lofty friend,
have been busy-bodied
to sleep.
And I have been taught-
That everyday is goodbye,
that there are no remedies for leftover stories
that one poem cannot say forever for us
that I’m glad I loved – but perhaps I could have loved
a little more like
catharsis.
Michael Imossan August 11, 2021 08:36
This is beautiful. "God cuts of his ears every morning before the world's supplicatory noise crowds his sleep" who can argue? Surely not you who have known loss. You said it. And you have proven it.