I was dissatisfied before dial-up – a love memory

Just a poem written to expunge the shadows of loss. It didn’t really work, but it feels worth it to give this website a bit of a relaunch. It’s overwrought, which reflects the website as a whole, and betrays my love for Arthur Rimbaud and Hart Crane.

A joy merely caressed is a joy nonetheless.

What if the price of joy is the bleached bones of regret and distress?

Has it been worth us paying it, you and I?

An extended oneiric moment heralding a gilded future, clearly now faded.

I poured my hope and ambition into the mould of one man’s outline, holding it close even as he himself faded

How cruel was I, determined to keep our keg dry in the presence of the flame we both once fanned.

In the cloistered halls the cruel armies pulled close, whispering and plotting, their eyes alive, knowing the red rose is nothing but a deep shade of grey waiting to bloom.

So I recede into those petals’ embrace, for the die is cast

The path of heaven has ever branched and we must lie in the cold meadows by the side of our different roads, you and I.

Regret is birthed, a protrusion given the full force of our lies and errors.

Like that black dog it will pad beside me until I care no more, its hungry eyes never satiated, always ready. Until it strikes I hand you the keys of our decisions, bid “adieu” and stroke your hair from afar.

A smile so gorgeous, a laugh so infectious (my jokes, your laugh, the ultimate bliss), arms to keep me safe and those aching words “I love you”: these are the embers I sweep into my arms, regardless of the burns.

My throat now fills with amber, my eyes with jade. The songs of farewell echo from the voices of those who came before, telling you -telling me- to make it easy on yourself, and I join in the chorus.

No spite or unkindness.

No recrimination or despair. Hope hangs lost in the spiderweb of what is and once was. The strand may reveal itself yet again. Who knows?

I dwell in the apartment of what was, surrounded by the fields of what might have been, an ecstatic smile transmitted via my lobes from 2012; in 2017 now become a wry, shattered grin.

Potential only dreamt might still have flowered.

And the jewels from 2012, 13, 14, 15, 16 still shine, though their lustre has dimmed.

A joy merely caressed is a joy nonetheless.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s