by June Labyzon
I used to write you love poems,
peppered (sprinkled) with small stitches
which ached into my longing.
Poems to cradle you,
poems you didn't always understand,
There were times when a verse
of mine would land as golden
sound bites on your ears.
I was always surprised
You once said that when it came
To my poetry I didn't know you
I did know that
You preferred the simple ones
poems that spelled things out
poems a little less cozy
poems that masked the truth
I cannot write you love poems any more
though it is such a betrayal of my essence.
I wasn't quite ready,
for this watering down of our relationship.
This poem sits on the page, legs crossed
more comfortable than I am.
I sit in the middle of the floor,
squeeze my legs closed,
doubly tight and
write your name in the built-up
dust on my dresser mirror, re-read
your words of love over and over again,
while you focus your energies
on your newest fragrance.
You dabble in the allure of new shapes,
new sounds, stir foreign waters,
across an ocean thousands of miles away
I did not ask to love you,
I did not ask you to open me wide
with your free-feeling tone.
The first time you kissed me my
mind spun around to face my heart.
Draped behind the graceful shadows
of elegance I presented you with
13 courses of pleasure,
you didn't miss a succulent morsel,
till she stole your heart.
Did you think I’d forget?
I want to believe that I
should stay and fight for the man I love,
turn a hardship into an impossibility.
Though I believe your future is out
of your mind, I am drawn to the idea of
living for myself, writing words that
sweep away my fantasies; writing
No I cannot write you love poems anymore.
I now write sentences on clean
linen, fluttering like rice paper in the wind.
My sentences are dotted with splendor;
sentences that knock you flat into the earthy battles,
while I walk in the sunlight looking
for spiritual challenges.
I would prefer that you hide the pleasure
you achieve, until I acquire an art of balance,
calm and zenlike; a gift for my libido,
Yet, collapsing selfishness, I open my heart
to your quirky open-hearted discussions
knowing you never meant to leave me
chaotic and disturbed;
understanding WE are dust and shadows,
musty and old.
Together you and she are shining lights,
spicy and new
I stand in my morning gown on an
empty stage, and open myself
to the colors of the sun,
weaving a rhapsody of words
to fill the empty spaces; I
squeeze myself into the
little pockets of silences.
The memories of you and me blaze
ruddy rose against my feminine cuts.
You will always be my muse,
And, when the time comes to finally say
I will still be able to meet you
In a poem.
Posted on 10/15/2014
Copyright © 2021 June Labyzon