As I lay here among the splintered
stitches of trees, reminiscing the past
two years & finding myself starting
over, my face drips with dramatic
tears of desolation.

I am lost.

The storm rages on—my head pulses
from its hyperactivity, unable
to grasp the complex thoughts flashing
by like the phosphorous scars
making bulbs of light in raindrops.

Still, I can hear the jabs of judgment fucking
with my mind—grieve—weep—wallow
in self pity. “Nay” I say to these [dis]believers
of constructed courting ceremony.

This is why you're muddling my senses;
from depressed & confused to dazzled & nude,
thoughts jump from tasks to you like infra-red
beams calculating speed. And your scent tortures
every protein in my bones, like humid, post-rain

summer day blended with Old Spice, juicing
my entrenched wounds—It's 11:13 now
and thoughts are back to you

and your lucent cool blue eyes,
perfect mirror images

of my fated desire.

09/23/2004

Posted on 10/29/2004
Copyright © 2024 S. Pelham Flood