Footnote
I think of you and me
as a novel I started writing
but didn’t have the patience for character
development, I used some clever lines
but never found a way to scribe
the proper ending
and for this, I am sorry
we should have been better than
only a few memorable first lines
a random array of inciting action
tragedy that I kept foreshadowing
from nearly our first scene
the beginning of chapters that
always kept us guessing
about the moments that came after
reading them back to myself now
I keep asking
was there some kind of lesson
the protagonists were supposed to learn?
back when we were both thirsting for something
you were arid and I was desert rain
it’s such a shame that I would never stay
constant
and it sounds cliché
but your heart wasn’t made to sustain
my barrage of constant plot twists
it couldn’t go back and read my prologue
so never knew the impact made by all the
prequels that previously existed
and while I insist
that I never began our story
with a sequel stuck in mind
I find myself desiring to rip out bad pages
write within the margins
a few author’s notes
or scratch out those moments
when the dialogue faded
into silence
silence, why were we silent
when the first time we kissed
was a zephyr’s scream
the first time we touched
cherubs caught fire, then splashed themselves with oil
just to cool themselves down
ignited, delighted
we’d lie in the bed afterwards
and simply
nothing ourselves to sleep
smiles on our faces
deep, meaningful
stretching
whole midnight’s long
replaced by
those
other nights,
we’d lie, in the bed,
guilty eyes on cold shoulders,
silently assuming that nothing was wrong
instead of trying our best to convince each other
of all the things that were right
or maybe this was just my plight, maybe just my
worry, maybe I was the one with the
inclination to hurry towards
recipes for disaster
¼ uncertainty
¼ denial
¼ infidelity, that spread out like miles
and ¼ fear that towered above
the death of one whole love
but we never did kill it, did we?
I just left, a gunshot wound to the back
I guess I assumed you’d move to the back
I expected you to
bleed out, easy
but you’re still here
present
you’re as present as my pages
you’re still here
present
you’re as present as my pen
which is why sometimes
I can’t help but draw you in
your name is still
a tattoo sketched to the backside of my heart
and like new lovers, it is skeptical of lasers
I cannot remove you
which is why I sometimes use other women as chasers
to help wash down my abandonment’s pain
staining my brain with the refrains of
awkward love songs
because I wanted to love you better, but see
I studied the blueprint wrong
which means every love that I’ve fashioned
comes crashing down
so I need to rework the construction of me
I been a long time coming
but my change is going to come
I’ve spent a lot of time running
but the day is going to come
where I will stop and face the
demons
my name is going to come
under question
either exorcise
or submit
but I am not a sorcerer
and I don’t conjure any spells
our rhythm is abstract, because it’s always been abstract
and the record keeps spinning
as we rotate detail upon detail
your love circling my love circling your love
circling my love circling
all my repetition about my
inability to love you
see
burning my notebooks won’t erase the words in me
no more than my walking away, can erase the you in me
but it might erase the pain a beautiful heart once sustained
when forced to beat to the rhythms of my erratic tendency
so please, by all means
let it burn
and may the embers flare like testaments to our once blazing passion
but stare it down, with the eyes of trauma survivors
who walked through the fire, and licked the flames
knowing there soul does not remain there
rise up in the smoke like a beautiful phoenix
knowing every time I ever told you I loved you
I meant it, even if it couldn’t sustain
this might be the footnote
to our love story
but hopefully, you rise from it in a blazing glory
don’t let this become heart’s epitaph
I heard a poet once say
there is love
after love
and I believe that
like I believe there are blue skies after rain
and I want that
like I demand joy after pain
because I need that
you need that
we
don’t have to remain
incomplete
like scattered pages
written
in vain
© Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet 2010
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