remember the young dancing on stones
I was seventeen and he was two years older
the symmetry of his face was so unusual
almost extravagant in its beauty
not like the daily gutter of the other men
he laughed all the time
he told me I was his bird
I’m 37 now
still can see him drowning
in the madness of that calm water
his body floating on the muddy surface
marking the end of our youth
he killed me when he died
I guess that evens out the odds
I was seventeen
and he was everything
his young body soaked
in the grassy sweetness of preserved almonds
left me here
surviving on my own
like we all do
I took my pain elsewhere
it sleeps on the 4th floor
of my apartment building
wanders around the living room
stares at the walls
it has the face of an abandoned child
I get to see him sometimes
in the withered Eden
in the remains of the Garden
between the branches
and the shadows and the lights
of the First Tree
where you can sit and stop breathing
where the sun hides
and walks away into the evening
leaving you alone fighting a quiet war
with your grief
but nobody else
cares
