I’ve been thinking about you. You’ve been here or there, in my unconscious.
Unbeknownst to me, I’ve been writing about you. Mending pathos with pros.
The alchemy is shameful. I am – I was – a good lover.
But, I never embraced novelty too well.
My banality feels out of place – on your ears – on your heart.
Brooding in a room in which room to brew is scarce.
This is why I am mute.
This is why the gab is drowning in stale air.
Catharsis has no room on your sheets.
It’s smothered by your pillow; buried in trite.
Waiting to be caught by receding breath and ambush us during my post potency exhale.
I see you hear the ghostly chatter treading above limbo. All the heard and not-so-heard phrases trapped in dismay while we live on. Looking at what they have lost:
An ear easy to the pillow.
A place in conversation.
Intimacy easy on the shoulders.
The room is too full to say all that I need to.
The light needs to be dimmed for me to explain because, darling, I get embarrassed being naked in front of you. I have open wombs tender to your sight:
The laceration on my chest.
The limp of my tongue.
The impotence of my convictions
The silence in my voice
Novelty is on your pillow; where I used to be.
I was – I am a good lover.
But, I embrace banality to easily.
My Catharsis feels out of place – on your heart – on your ears.
Brooding in a room in a room in which room to brew is scarce.