after this

otherwise:
it could have been worse.

could all
our stories fit into
honeycomb cupboards
like we did
when we were children,
strung out like warm cheese,
still taste the same
but different
to the touch?

(no winters ever spared the trees,
our birds were forlorn pragmatists.
nostalgia is for those that stay,
felt for those that leave and promise
to come back)

unless:
there is no other way
to love ourselves
but in the absences
of those who never stay.

unless love can
beat us down and abandon
us to pulse and skin
can patch blue thorns,
not hide but become,
a cover of wistful darkness–
or whatever you find
in cupboards.

sixteen waking hours
and I have given up
what little
i couldn’t throw away.

a little space between your legs
i can weasel mine into
for something I could mistake
for warmth.
who knows what really happened
between you and me.
two halves of story
together still incomplete.
two halves:
incompletes of something else.

(i am all sides and no centres
the depth of the burgundy tide
that rolls over your feet
and then recedes into everything)

you left me canyons
in whose depths coruscate
the vital pebbles
of my own storming memento
as i slip over cascades
that end
in the ravenous nothing
of empty cupboards.

and if nothing else:
this is the worst it could ever get
as long as there is something
after this.

(featured image posted by @ozanguzelce on Instagram)

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