i have nothing to call this hollow
that folds into me its loss and twists
my organs so. that gets itself sick
on the road i've biked, driven, walked and stumbled
down so many times. the fury in my shallow sobbing cough,
the way i want to scream into this town that it has stunted me
for making me need it so fiercely, like a lover.
but you cannot cradle a place to your chest,
you can not grab it by the waist and plead for it to follow you.
i have tried to make you something heroic,
but in the end you turned on me by still being as you always were
in my new absence. for continuing on, flourishing even.

tonight,
i sleep here for the last time.
and there is something vividly despairing
in the green sofa void of strewn clothes and
the spaces on the wall that seem heavier in their
blinding white against the yellow of worn paint,
where the pictures are no longer hung
and only the holes of weathered tacks remain.

in this room that has been very mine,
i have bared myself entirely,
wrung my hands and cursed the ceiling. asked forgiveness,
begged revenge, and stole the lust of bodies beneath blankets
and was not remorseful.

i've never let myself see what the end would encompass,
for fear that it would lack some semblance of return
or the sad half-hearted waves of those i've loved here;
there have been many.
even behind fake walls someone sleeps knowing
he could not see me off correctly,
and leaving him alone to sulk i can't imagine he feels better
knowing that my efforts to be stoic were humiliated by
his inability to humor.
others pressed their faces into my neck
and held me, left written numbers on my hands and
promised, promised, promised.

i see now how defective everything is
in its pursuit to be meaningful.
but leaving here, leaving them,
has made me understand the brevity of this terrible anguish.
i've never been more conscious of being alive than right this moment,
never been more breathing.

06/20/2008

Posted on 06/20/2008
Copyright © 2024 Lauren Singer