It feels forced-
the healing
the forgetting
the empty space
between then and now, the days that seem to
evaporate without essence, taste or smell.
I try to fill up the space around her, but
feel as though my body is detained and yoked to
the sensory memory of a being, that was once
erect, loud, above sea level.
out of sync
a poverty in my being
with the way she, bends, peels, chops, lays
and changes the remote dropping it against her
stomach, it tangling up between the sheet and her
skin in the hot hot heat. How I going to mention
that time will move fast and I will have to move
with it.
Like the violent breeze outside from the west , a faint whisper
of belonging. Now the smell of guilt fixes itself around my head
and nothing settles the around and around in the pit of
my stomach.
On Paradise © July 2010
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