The men I’ve loved have allowed me
to rely on no one but myself.
You can bare your soul, you know
at the distance of an arm’s length.
It is possible to bask
in the warmth of an embrace, and yet
walk away feeling even more alone.
And yes, I’ve known connection
and heartache
and there are many who have glimpsed
the intricacies of this spirit.
(a vast kaleidoscope of pale purples,
flowing, constantly in motion)
And I too, having seen their own.
It is possible to dive into the pool of love
for a brisk swim
and struggle to stay above waves
that you, yourself, have made.
And it is also true that you can
drown there,
and when dragged out, revive,
still feeling refreshed from the water
left rolling off your skin.
(there is an incredible majesty
it the moment before you succumb,
like dusk has just begun to break)
Reminiscing of your brushes with death
while drying your skin
with towel swipes.
I know there are times
when I stare off into the distance
and it is hard to say whether I am recalling
love or loss.
The gut-wrenching kick of solace?
Or strolling down the short path
of memory lane, that I even dare revisit.
There are moments in the silence
when I can still feel the touch
of a ghostly fingertip
against my surface of my skin.
And I am forced to open my eyes to the darkness
despite my fear that
I’ll see something standing there
before me.
Finding myself then,
startled by the void instead.
