frame of a skyscraper
i miss reading our horoscopes and looking for each other
the way in the summer i checked every day
for the rotation of my moon into some house
which unbound me from the chains which i lamentingly tied myself
astrology was my lover, uncoiled
whispering sweet secrets of solidarity
and a promise that one day, somehow
the moons were going to cast a shadow on the wall
of a bedroom where a boy sat waiting
to convince me to kiss him as much for myself
promising me hope in something new
i miss the dream of you in my waking most when
the bathtub spills water predictably, and
those sloshing cascades seem so violent in their descent
to the floor ((which later i will cursingly reconstruct dryness
with the once-used towel which is now in need of laundry))
yet, i submerge myself under water letting my knees rise
and my head sink, opening burning eyes to watch dissipating bubbles
turn into peaks and valleys, it’s like bob dylan said:
How many years can a mountain exist before it’s washed to the sea?
when i wake i am surprised that time has passed, somehow.
i accuse the clock of lying; still, trusting it enough to rise to a new day
where i eventually find myself in the third phase of a long journey with therapy
explaining to a new face the story of you with the same pit in my stomach
in the same part of the story: this is a new favorite novel and
everyday i turn the page and want to warn the hero to…
stop my heartache at the suture which is healing
we will protect ourselves for years in choose your own adventures
we will dogear the pages of a book which we will never claim as a favorite
daily almost we leave the bookstore with the bitter taste of espresso
floating above our taste buds until one the sunlight breaks in the revelation
nothing,
outside the chalky outline
of my skeleton
matters more than this frame
which we constructed
and then leapt from
in one
graceful
final bow