manuel of la brea

45

you don’t have to think about me

I.

I do not know how many more 
pages I can use,
be stained with black ink,
shed a tear that ripples
within sundown.
And if it hurts,
cover it with words that can
comfort me at night.
And if require somebody
to complain to,
the moon nextdoor whispers to me,
applying my lips to the stars.

And there I will use
each line, each verse
you used to give meaning of,
preparing to guide me
to find the rise from the fall.
Numerous stars will
see me down,
appear me places,
find me in my loss,
discover me in my misfits. 

The darkest part of the void
I wander alone with the thought of you,
hoping that the venture
won’t sink into disappointment,
disillusionment of love.
But you don’t ought to 
lift me out my drowning
as the air will continue to
strangle my hopes,
suffocate my fears,
destroy our dreams.

II.

You don’t have to think
if I can cross in my
arguing with the wreck,
uneasiness within the storm,
and what may have been done in the sea.
The waves, you already know, 
are so strong and so pulling
they could capsize my little boat,
and the light used to navigate me,
like your eyes full of stars,
died in the force of the gusty wind.

You don’t have to think
about saving me 
in a somber, murky place
for I won’t be able to return
to the island I’ve always wanted
to burn in oblivion.
As at times I mixed
dreaming and not sleeping;
the lullabies you wrote
became melancholic echoes
that make me weep.

And don’t remind me 
of our place 
where I lost myself
after toing and froing,
looks like it will 
never happen again—
please let the
gloomy night of grief,
my sonnets of 
interference, induction,
and the paddles 
hold me
and propel me
forward.