Your plumage exalts me,

a frenzy of color and taboo.

I writhe in the wake of your designations,

in the subtle culpability of your smile

as it slips breathlessly beneath the horizon.

I have loved you all the days of my life

though we are strangers, even now.

I can taste your desire, your sutures

like pennies and hemlock.

Had I known the destructive force

that you would become I would have

given you more, died as is my want

with blood-chilling fortitude,

like a fire plucked from an intermittent spark.

The day exploits my sorrows,

the day expects things that I no longer provide.

The day has become my night

and my night is infinite though seldom silent.

My exhales perforate each moment

and what a terrible weight, each breath

drawn not of volition but from some

inexplicable need to survive.

I like to pretend that you are dead,

that my mourning is justified,

that my absences are meaningful.

I do not want you back,

only your memory can occupy

the rifts and endeavors of my brandished heart.


8 responses to “Fortitude

  1. Absolutely loved this one!
    Somehow, to me, it highlights the foolishness that adult life is full of. How can we want things that we DON’T want?

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