The wound you left behind festers and weeps inside me filling me with so much more than just tears until I feel like this is it I am going to…
You instinctively glance back at the mirror to study your reflection but it’s not there anymore. There are no poems for you, nor any school of wailing ladies swimming in receding rocky lakes of sorrow. Every part of you has been replaced, your lines rewritten, reimagined, your role re cast…
I dispatch our ships in to the high seas of the embroidered plastic table cloths clipped to old tables on their last leg. The dripping water melon juice meets an army of seeds that know no commander in handkerchief. Our affections blind to the boundaries of that no man’s land, travel from the safe lands to the mine fields. My head hangs off of the picnic blanket like a waterfall flowing to a valley of disbelief. The inappropriate smirk on my face beckons the mercy of the bees. My protests forever silenced by your lips. I melt into the high grasses, the underbrush, the mud, the rustling trees tattooing my skin. I exhale and allow myself to get lost in this. Alas, this may at last be bliss.
is as much a gift as
Your presence.
Cause only when
I don’t have you here
can I appreciate fully
How nice it is to
have you here.
E. Saglamer
