canny

the fragility is the thing.

the delicateness-

of your touch, of your smile

of your laugh

the reaction when I look your way

-all of it-

ALL OF IT

paints the picture you began but

I was left to finish and so-

so.

This is your way,

your hope, should I say

left upon the shelf like a can of

pickled herring
or Spam.

lifting, up,

out and over-

above and beyond everything

that you ever longed for but

still clenching an ideal or

an outdated premise

that never held true.

the tide bubbles over.

left to our own devices

and given enough space

and time

and inclination

we will burn the whole thing

down all over again

without a care in the world.

The holes you’re beating into

my heart

give it a texture, a feeling

a movement

and rhythm

a cadence

never sought before or

after or since

and left alone too long-

far too long-

far too much more than

anything else we knew,

just a baby

like a little boy lost

looking for a hand to hold

in the city

and reaching helplessly

hopelessly around

knowing far too well

far too soon

the catch

and the

hollow ring of loss.

figured as much.

I knew you did &

we could and we will

but until & unless you

break it all open your

fingers are going to fracture

and your ears are going to bleed

but the loss of sight

the loss of love

the loss-

inevitably leaves it all

to shriek again.