it’s easier to blame myself

oh, witch eyes.
we could have been an anthology together, you and i;
haiku of silk skin and skeins of dark hair on sheets,
the seventeen-syllable synopsis of sense:
a reflection to the sky of its vastness in ourselves, mirror mirror,
a rhyme to reason, a madness for every method

(and haven’t we enough madness between us,
you with your voices and myself with my moods?)

i shudder to think.

and we might have made them shudder,
might have sent the same thrill down some unknowing reader’s spine
as your fingers and your eyes caused in me, aftershocks violent enough
to register on the Richter scale;

we could have been free verse, our breaths, ideas,
concepts of control and callousness
and such horrid beauty it made the moth on my lips flitter briefly
so his wings seemed invisible enough for my words perhaps
to pass for once (but i am still silent).

we might have been an experiment in sensation,
a lesson in pleasures untold which blacken the proper man’s mind
so he rapes his bedsheets;

we could have been the poet laureate of the world,

the last gilt-paged tome left to treasure
in the wake of the burning books,
for scholars centuries from now to ponder:

who left such feelings behind, they would question–
how could human hearts have held such weights,
such freedoms,
such lofty desires, we–
but no.

we are no poem, but a splatter of ink easily bleached clean in time for work;

you broke the pen, and it was my hand that guided yours.


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