My Lady,

You are beautiful.

I use that word because I mean it.

Beautiful like

a breeze kicking up leaves amongst the cigarette butts,

beautiful like

a million lights glittering behind the building across the street,

beautiful like

a manicured green that is nonauthorisé.

Something as beautiful as you cannot be sit on.

It can only be pictured again and again

until every strand of memory weaves itself into a canvas

to hang over a hole in the drywall,

or a sheet

to drape over the chair that just can’t be gotten rid of.

What I mean to say is

I can’t let go of the way

you smell like butter and piss and Chanel No. 5.

I can’t stop hearing the crinkle of your rolling papers,

the sigh of your train as it cools on the tracks,

the cry of seagulls who mistook your river for the sea.

I can’t purge you from my palette, either,

scrape you from my tongue,

nor can I wash out my resentment.

 

I thought I’d beaten you the moment I said

“I will never come back.”

I meant it then.

Funny,

my return is all I can imagine now;

my arrival on your doorstep is all I can foresee.

My entrance will go unnoticed,

but the sound of my shoe on your staircase

will shake you from your ambivalence.

 

Cruel vixen,

though I may cringe at every step up your tower,

when I reach the top there will be

nothing more you can do to me.

I will have skipped the elevator,

refused to settle for the second-to-last étage,

elbowed my way through your hoard of suitors,

survived it all.

And then, at long last,

your wind will wash over me like water

and all I will hear is your wayfaring voice,

pleading me to never forget your luster…

 

In time, my love,

your brilliance may be eclipsed by the young,

and your splendor overshadowed by the bold,

but your beauty

is untouchable.

 

My Lady,

the day you turn to ash

will be the day

this world goes black—

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Filed under Poetry

2 responses to “My Lady,

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