His scent is still on my sheets
but I'll have to wash them this week
And purple gladiolas are withered and brown
I need to remember to take the trash down
The note I wrote his number on is gone from there
noted and encoded in a file somewhere
But his scent is still in my mind
And the dried blossoms are in my collection of rose petals
And the urge to call is on my finger tips...
What is this seperation?
Is it real, or only in my mind?
I feel his hair brush my face
His purple glasses glinting
"Right on," reverberates relentlessly...
He is all around me
Meager memories multiplied
entwined in empty air
As if learning eachother
had really been remembering eachother
So close so fast
And closed shut
A year in a week
And enough pain to last a while...
I'd hate to lose you.
But I'm also terrified of you
and what I feel for you...
So take whatever time you need.
And then take
a little more for
We can't be lovers right now...
Nor how can
we be friends even...?
But I would hope at least
you could live in peace
of splinter memories
That you must pick and pry
from your flesh
I hope a few
are pretty to you
And shine in the clear, cloudless, after-storm skies
Once you wash mud and blood
from a hundred careless wounds...
(Sept. 17, 1996)