when i rediscovered you,
i was spinning with the words
of my favorite author, the original
namesake of pleasure, and her poem
not quite epic in length
(though perhaps in style)
searching for some hint
of my identity in a beautiful,
albeit false, reality.
perhaps, before we lived this life
our failures in trust
separated us and the
psychosis which you now deny
illuminated my figure by candlelight;
and, my eros, you hid
behind a veil.
maybe our love faltered
beneath the weight of my
doubt and your unforgiving
heart crushed what remained.
a death and rebirth renewed us,
you relegated me to your echo
as i lingered on every word
and within the still waters
i held you so captivated
until you bored of even yourself
and the limitless stories
i wove to occupy you.
you mourned for me
in the emptiness of the new lives
we lead alone, the lament of your song
drawing those who surrounded you
to offer words of comfort.
with new hope you looked for me
although you knew it meant to lose me.
in the end, you demanded me.
tearing me from unconditionality,
while you mimicked her in both
rationale and jealousy,
until you both held my body
so tightly from either side
that i could not see myself
at my center, again murdering me
in a vicious story of us.
our souls and minds have lived
these stories in the myths of those
poems whose subject remains a
delicate mystery. and our hearts
have retold these tales
in so many different
solemn encounters with
the cold whisper of those
whose accelerations of breath
were still meaningless.
now, we find ourselves
in the retrial, budding strong
in each day’s growth
cautious of our memories,
and accepting the pain
as a complement to our hedone.
