Tuesday, April 26, 2016
When memory is long
it is more difficult to forgive. I remember
the exact words you said
inside the room
where all the words we hurled at each other
lay with the shards of glass and mirror
remains of china, frames, memorabilia
what you wore and the colour of the sheets
the sound of begging
and finality, that immovable self-possessed weight.
The stolid words, once arrived, stay
no matter you sweep them with many vacations,
drowning them in tropical seas of laughter
into a forgetfulness; the words know
how to breathe darkly in subterranean waters
finding their labyrinthine way, resurfacing
as beasts of reason
for disbelief and anger
unfaithfulness.
You and I do not mention
the lock is broken and I wonder why
it cannot be said in plain words.
What we choose not to understand.
How memory gets in the way.
A hallway, a strait. You and I, different shores.
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