He holds the cards in his hands. Jokers and Queens.
On his knees in some strange place, where the moss
covers over the cracks. And any thoughts that might run to her
are slammed to the ground with a desperate violence.
At home she dreams of the skin at the nape of his neck.
How he curled around her like a fine husk.
And there is a list of things that ring out like the bell
of his name, of what she gets sick on.
Where he is now, the history of love goes back to antiquity.
A circus of women with their frills and flashing eyes.
And he buries his hands in any heat he can find,
dreams of Great Fires, of how easily things burn.
Wakes and reminds himself of how little use there is
in remembering a life already gone.
Listen. Can you heart it? The hum of his mouth far away.
How distance sounds like static, feels like the thickest silence.
Now the alarm wakes you like a siren, a warning
that this is another day, another stretch of dull hours
of your body begging your hands to belong to someone else.
So you dress like a priestess, like a queen who needs no king.
Your knees bow your forehead to the floor. These are prayers,
this is forgiveness, this is a sadness that needs no feeding.
And then one day you manage to shake the ghost from your own body.
Wake with your insides free of tangles, from a sleep that feels
like recovery, from a dream that was not about him.
But this is not lightness. There is no relief. Only the weight of
realisation, of how much you do not want to forget.
Lately I just feel too much older.