SHE would pull back her hands to her sides, her furrows bear poetic paintings with a past unfolded in crosshatch, reprimands to the unblinking, to the untried to never covet an hour lost and found, the length of a sunset, a sun weighing us down, now or then looking away to a beach that doesn’t seem our way, reputed for its unchanging coral reefs and saying it’s way more glorious than the beach next door, as we know, the one nobody cares to swim into.
Then my hips, already weak, begin to shake though when you come with me, if we should go by car, we’re together, on ground heavy that your steps cannot change.
I must say more, but you know the story. You must hear the secret though only the Sages were allowed to hear it.
It is a light; my dark world turns into a coffin light, the whole thing collapsing, if i miss you, my sadness begs, but there are no answers what to do when everything in you, in all of us weeps for absence.
Better for the room’s overhead to be darkness, for me, for my heart’s an end that must not bend, a blade lost in sand. Can no healing be between our two lonely hearts without me weeping and no consolation
without you wanting to know, when we’ll fall in love again?
Want to buy a song give a gift of musical genius the way we never stop loving, until I can be safe again.
I’ve lived alone for the last thirteen years, still living off my memories of her, but having no contact with her — except for my last few days, of course.
I wrote the only song I can sing now, and there were no lessons to be had in any language even if you had known about me, about how I suffered in my anger, from the depth of my despair,
you would not have come near.
:: 03.26.2021 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 