Some passion is not passion
it is poison
two people figuratively and literally
splintered, rent by its result.
I live for you, and that is wrong
I’ve always known it—
you are the parenthesis to my empty sentence
without you—there is no without you—
There was a life before, something emergent and bold
laying claim in fallow ways—so what if the jewel was
a common stone without shine? And her head stuffed with
darkness pollute and pain—
she could have survived because she did survive
Leonard Cohen understood that, when he said; “Strength is
just surviving” — he had no need for membership,
bouquets of friends thronging accomplished tables
enthralled lovers, accolades, much stamped passports
honorary PhD’s, mausoleums with real artisan iron
—corruption has its own gilt
he sang into the gutter, watched the bare foot child
save a worm from drowning and found hallelujah.
It’s not you who has stolen this from me—
I may well have never possessed it—I let it slip
like a heirloom unwatched, falls and is lost.
A time when—I lay in grass that smelt like summer and
held the wrist of a German girl, with a 90’s bob and kohl
smudged eyes and shimmered in her attention like a
fat dove, singing from her roost. In that moment, and other
spilt, languid, creamy hours where violet light lit
velvet blue sofas with such the right caress, life was
less pockmarked with horror
her eyes, brown and liquid, tinted by ecstasy
illuminating, refracting my own—possibility
it wasn’t love; it had no burden of love, no required proof
crumbling, no disintegration, taint, the passion
simple, momentary, we didn’t have to sit there and
watch ourselves die.
I watch us die. A film with improper ending, the actors
unable to alter course, sent crashing into one another
with the force of distain.
They said; familiarity breeds contempt, and I fought
that pronouncement like quicksand, refusing to relinquish
fight—till the day you walked away smiling, the sharp
edge of your knife buried in my chest, up to ornate hilt
then I saw my foolishness, for years over years—
like catching water with a butterfly net—
some people do not want you to stand with them
defend them, protect them, it is not always
a role but a burden, you become a nag, a thorn
without easy removal—forgetting you were once
cherished, and in that moment—love? Love is savage
a cruelty, a regret, and the loneliness of being
with someone whose eyes are empty—feels more
terrible than any time alone, for some passion
is not passion, it is
poison. And venom?
Venom is the only one who knows
the fatal dose.