Swirling Silhouettes

Were it not for your departure –
Your subtle, sweet scent which lingers on the voile curtains
Wraps around me like a silky husk…
Like a last, sorry goodbye from the arms of a lover that knows he must abandon all hope –
Crushing loves’ timepiece beneath the heel of his well-worn boot, scattering its ghosts in all directions
Were it not for these precious things –
Hours of dreams, and dreaming
Countless flutters of the heart, murmurs of desires, joyful transcendences
Stitched together on butterfly wings, to take flight with the swiftest ascent
Melded into the armored breastplates of dragonflies, to withstand the frost, and darkness
And the barren temperament that life offers in the palms of its withered, calloused hands…
Then, I would inhale the last of your scent into my wilting lungs
Hold it there until it spun itself into lacy threads that built sticky, scattered webs –
Tethering you to me
And oh how I would give up the ghost without so much as one tender tear
Never to breathe another casual, happy breath again
If it meant that I could follow you into the unknown infinities of beyond
If only one last time, my weary fingers could soothe the burdens from your brow
Plumb the braided knots from your ravaged spine
Touch that mouth, of which I pressed my lips against to share my secrets and fragrant yearnings…
Would that I had the providence in this gypsy heart, to alert me to the depths of sprawling pain
That this love would incur
But no… I would not have taken to the sky, wings carrying me to the moons hidden crevices
So that I could deny love, cage it within rusted, lonely bars…
Must I steal from love all of its rapt glory, due to scars, and tears, and throttled rose bushes? –
Petals in forensic freefall, until thudding against the cold, hard ground…
We were chaos in a sugar bowl
And you, with your goblet eyes full of ruin –
A cimmerian, bleak valentine that spoke to me with words of dark longing
You were simmering shadow obscuring sunlight
Misery seeping, fluid and pulsing, like these inky words running off of the page, smearing my fingertips
And I; I was lovingly lost in your decadent dreariness
Tearing at my hair, clawing; Scraping winter wounds –
Decorating my eyes with dead prayers, betrayed ghosts
And brittle feathers, from the carcasses of crows in the corner boneyard, outside the south window
Your promises weren’t mine
We fell from different disappointments before we found our footing
Oddments burrowing beneath our skin, until our eyes lost their shine
And we forgot to find what we never knew
But, it doesn’t matter
I loved you anyway, and love you even still
Your voice carrying in the swaying feathered stalks that caress the brick walls
“Hush,” I tell myself
Those soft whispers are meant to be mine when I am still
The drumming of my heart turning toward the night sky where you are waiting

These precious things that you have left with me
Keep me grounded and alive though I would gladly depart if you somehow sent word –
Through old, musty pages, drum, visions or bird…
I would attempt to take flight, give up the ghost
But all I have left, in the most primitive form, is to hold the curtains to my nose, and see the buds next to the thorns
I feel your warmth against my spine
And I think that this won’t be our last goodbye
I think that it will wind
Through each season, each numinous, luminous, painterly occasion