“I tried to love you less. I couldn’t”
–Simone de Beauvoir
I lost my way some way back;
lost where I was, lost where
I was going, as well as, who
I was, and as a result, who
I am: a disheveled mess,
but still my disheveled mess,
to recover and patch together.
So, I must gather all traces
relevant among the fragmented
bits I wore like talismans
against unrelenting fear,
who deployed his stubby fingers,
like spiders, to probe each
crevice and crack for a love
to feed my parched hunger;
I must discern which bits still
hold some sliver of meaning
that matters to the now I’m in.
As if that moment with you
has become so much detritus,
which must be sloughed aside
like troubled dreams with day.
The result, of course, creates
quandaries, fecund fields ploughed
with possibilities’ seductions,
like old paper maps exploding
untold routes to lead me home.
(December 31, 2014)
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