The last of my love poems, at least to date and at least for the foreseeable future, is to do with what resulted from five years spent going from one guy to the next: three significant relationships and an unknown number of fast flings somewhere nearing a couple dozen.
But the three substantial encounters, lasting three months (+ three months ten years earlier), two and a half years (he’s the subject of “His eyes amber, grey and green…” and “Of Zeus and Ganymede“), and most recently two and a half very intense months, took a lot out of me but also taught me deeper lessons about my own and our species’ capacity for negligence.
That last one broke that part of me that craved a partner. Billie Holiday’s “You Let Me Down” is the best musical description of that experience I’ve heard. Fiona Apple’s “Periphery” is a close second. (But they’re pretty obviously related.)
It’s his birthday today. Here’s to him. Here’s to what isn’t.
Anyway, the last of the love poems:
There’s a space inside 28 May 2021
There’s a space inside of me I’ve pushed under the surface, a barren blackened hellscape torched by another’s self-fashioning There’s a space inside within my heart like when a sheet of thickset ice propelled by Boreas’ relentless force fragments from pressure accumulated and the shore is fathoms thick with it, the remnant boulders heaping, grinding quaking splitting. How the sounds of their fury push the blood through the veins of this tossed-aside body to this tossed-aside mind, as if a mocking wasted effort. Shrieking shards, they howl like women veiled for grief wailing at men’s demise, as if to let their wailing be enough that I needn’t.
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