Geraniums, etc.

I recall fragments

When I allow them to cut

Into my meaty consciousness:

Naivety and self-obsession.

Waking dreams

Of hands held and

Sticky sweets sucked;

Why then does this not hurt more?

Joyful, unabashed,

Stoic we swam and

Laughed. The thread

That links us is wrapped to a

Winch that one day

I might turn.

Cross words, fluid

Stanzas and art in scope,

Litter my walls and

Desks which rumble

As I quake, alone.

One day this will

Hurt more.

One day when the

Silence of a spring garden

Makes my ears ring,

Eyes sting: untethered.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s