Bitterness owns no part, of my thoughts of you—

intruding upon days with the intensity of a teenager

who said you can’t remain preoccupied in fantasy?

I slip-side in wet weather, seeing you lying beside me

imagining scenarios like decks of cards well played and warm

you little fool, take another unrequited shot in the dark

you have neither glasses nor compass, you will stumble

reaching out for what is too far off, I tell myself

when Doctors ask if my heart typically beats that fast?

What is usual about you? Nothing, no, nothing at all

you stand out like the sky wiped of stars, save one

(if I were just a little more … captivating, cold, unreachable

would it? Would you? Could? Ice melt without drowning?)

What looks like indifference is careful removal

of obvious emotions too bright for hanging in public

sometimes what you want the most— is terrifying

for you—are the one who broke the mold

slipping out and shouting ‘ya boo!’ at the world

it’s strange to see all the years I wound you in my bones

slipping down a long road I never thought would claim

this continued longing

as slick as tar, as potent as inhaling, your breath

mists cold air and I try not to watch—everything

you, the narrowness of your bones and yet strength

such claim on me without knowing

the poison of one way tickets, they say that’s how it usually is—

no room to persuade, no spell, no words

capable of altering fate, time, the divergence of two

I drive, facing the empty road, not turning around

though every part of me wants to pull you to me, make you understand

how would it look? Running from open car

blinking lights in rain, ajar door flung wide

those are books and films, not real life—in real life

people drive off; already thinking of shopping lists and hair cuts

not of the woman who has said nothing

her heart pounding out of her flowering chest

even in silence she is deafening, if you stopped to examine

these are decades not days, altering DNA, memory, history

someone could die leaving a confession and who would really care?

If I had the courage and you; the simple matched desire …

forests would ignite when we touched, yet

nothing simple comes from years stuffed in boxes

neither, no, time pulls away, a velvet glove

shod and lost on a windy day nowhere recalled

I feel the wet of tears on my cheeks and the sharp stinging reminder of youth

when you first learn to want, what you cannot have

nothing changes ever much

for girls in love with other girls.

5 Replies to “Even in silence she is deafening”

  1. I sit, flooded by a memory. It happens to boys/men in love too. And on the heels of that recall come the beginning of a poem;

    “It was many and many a year ago,
    In a kingdom by the sea,” [Edgar Allan Poe – Annabel Lee]

    Oh, the mirror is far from exact, but never the less, it always comes.

  2. It’s something maybe i should ponder more. Before I encountered Poe’s poetry, the only poem of romance I can recall was The Owl And The Pussycat by Edward Lear. And then, still a few years short of puberty, came The Raven and Annabel Lee, both of grieving a dead lover. Hmmm, well, at least I was prepared to accept that love and grief are inseparable in this mortal realm.

  3. Wisely said. I remember The Owl and the Pussycat – and the vivid art I saw in a kids book depicting lear’s poetry. I am less familiar with Poe because it didn’t do it for me, which is weird considering my goth heart. It is very American so it could be that. I often think of how he died and how odd that was and what it really meant, still to this day they don’t know. Now I’m thinking I need to read more on this and re-visit his work – it’s been a long while – I do agree love and grief are inseparable but I’d rather experience than no experience – interestingly I know people who having been burned once would never ever again venture, that to me seems a slow death.

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