lovers and lamentations

a meditation on loneliness / henri

you're the morning fog that looms
over bogs and meadows.
you're the autumn breeze
that tickles my neck.
you're a ghost and you haunt me.
the love we had is not quite alive anymore-
a turbulent passion, a torrid affair-
but i still see you, vividly, in my memories.
you visit me in my dreams,
every night it seems.

i hold on to you, i let you go.
i tell the stars about you,
i curse your name to the wind.
i use the love letters you sent to me as an ashtray.
i put our polaroids in a photobook that i'll give
to my grandkids one day.

if they ever ask me what love means,
i'll show them pictures of you smiling with a mischievous look in your eye, holding a heavy book in one hand and a joint in the other; pictures of me laughing while flipping you off as i clack away at my shiny typewriter; pictures of us taken in front of a mirror as we're brushing our teeth, or going to sleep, or making breakfast together.

there's a photo of us in front of a famous bridge somewhere. our eyes are closed, you're kissing me, my hands are caressing the back of your neck. i searched every box and cabinet, but i could no longer find it.
mysteriously, it disappeared
around the same time you left.

now that i'm alone,
i get drunk and dance by myself.
i get high and lay in bed by myself.
i stare at the space that still holds
the shape of your body
and i sleep on the couch
alone.