The pain that can only be ever described as a thousand paper cuts.
Each memory of you a squirt of lemon juice on the undulated flesh.
A thousand petite hooks, ripping, shredding the hole inside a part.
Each agonizing second serving as a siren’s call.
Like Odysseus yearning, aching to return home.
Don’t wait up Penelope, there’s nothing to be done.
Shouting to the living darkness that stretches and folds up.
Shadows linger on a stony bier, of the thing once called love.
To the darkness you shout, for someone to blame.
A silent sniggering, a grim reminder that no one’s there.
And my words, I still read aloud, hoping somehow you’d hear.
An exercise in futility, one of the more beautiful ones there.
I still read on, despite the diabolical silence that draws breath.
A little ritual dedicated to a goddess in your stead.
A hymn to loveliest of lovely, so one and all may know.
Of ordinary brown eyes, filled with such extraordinary love.
Maybe it’s only the picturesque illustrations that I adore.
But like a knife your voice cuts the silence, my heart and my soul.
It drives me mad, its sinuous curves, its highs and its lows.
The magnificent disturbances with which you charm the air, my love.
And the very essence of creation that you bring singing to life.
I wish the darkness were your dusky locks obscuring my sight.
To drown, as your scents fill my lungs, my essence and my soul.
A tragedy maybe but you know how I am sucker for those.