by J.T. Marsh
chapters of a book, an
love made out to be more than
it is. We’re like a
misplaced period, an
obscure turn of phrase,
maybe a mistake. Nothing
more than our hectic and
sentimental memories can
make it all worthwhile. Three
men walk along a railroad’s
tracks, reaching the
end of the line before
turning and making
back for home. Still
not clean, still not clean.
As I’ve committed myself
to the love of my life, a
twenty-four hour thought
lines itself along the
notion of a
rude, full-scale
joke, love, I’m in love,
as I’ve always been in love.
Style serves story.
Story shapes style.
Don’t you think
today’s top deals
make for a sad
state of affairs?
Her name, her name,
in love a toxic stew of emotions
roiling about in at the
mere mention of her name.
An love for the
pages of memory,
left in place, her
face and her voice
and her name all
blending to form a
final paroxysm that
sickens me to my core.
But there’s not much
time left. There’s
never much time. We’re
all here only for a short
time, and after we’ve
been together I can’t
fathom the notion
of being with anyone
else
ever
again.
25.
Here we are.
We are here.
Condemnation,
cooperation,
communion. We’ve
done all right, since
you’ve been away,
and
what really brings me back
after all this time is the
memory of our love,
the way it hides behind the
soft, warm haze of so
many years gone by.
Love is, is,
too cruel to be
wrought upon the
young, the domestic, the
puerile and the hired.
When we’re young,
love seems such a noble thing,
but as we withdraw into the
safety and the security of
adulthood we are
made to learn
the limitations of
ourselves, outrun by a life
lived at the speed of dark.
It’s a ruse.
When we’re young,
we begin as something.
When we age,
we become something else.
No more, I tell you, no more.
In love, I’m like the
fool’s veneer, a
scheduled humiliation
leaving no room
for her. It’s this place.
When I close my eyes and
imagine, I can nearly hear her
voice. It’s a sweet fantasy,
childish, demure. Nice
language, nice stocks.
It’s been
so long
since we’ve
seen each
other. It’s
been too
long since
we’ve seen
each other.
Broken windows,
shattered glass.
Stolen hearts,
wanted minds.
She’s the
love of
my life.
If she’s
reading this
right now,
then I’d
like to
talk to her
alone, if
you’d let
me have
a moment
with her. No,
it’s not right, it’s
never been right.
When the waters
part and the way
forward seems clear,
we learn to turn around
and to deny ourselves
the sure path to salvation.
Drifted, I’ve drifted
from the notion of
our love I’ve held,
of our love as
pure and innocent,
but it’s an
juvenile notion,
puerile, impossible to
take seriously. After a
mid-winter’s snowfall,
she and I sit in each
other’s arms, her
warmth spreading over
my cold, on the
road ahead
tire tracks reaching
into the distance, stopped
only by the
iced-over lake and the
towering mountains ahead with
peaks obscured behind
a late-morning haze. She
stands. I remain seated. She
leaves. I stay. You’re
the love of my life. You’re
a shining light, a beam of warmth
amid the frigid harshness of
winter’s depths. Your skin
lingers against mine, even after
we’ve separated. The salty
taste of your tears lingers
on the tip of my tongue, and
it’s as though I’m still
kissing you while you
cry in my arms. But
it’s over. We’re finished.
In love, I am like the
cold, mid-winter’s day,
given to extremes, prone
to warmth hidden by the rapidly
darkening skies. Don’t
leave. Never leave. Leave.
In Closing.
Once again, battling the
blaze we express our
gratitude, breaking free
with nothing, having lost
everything and having lost it
quickly. Where, besides a
lover’s reverence could we
find everything we’ve lost,
again?
The End
Thank you for reading this book of poetry. If you enjoyed it, please consider leaving a review at the retailer where you downloaded it. - J.T.
