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Apology
I’m sorry
that I lied, that I kissed another man when it should have been you—holding me, smelling of ginger and allspice, whispering foreign words that had no meaning to me—except it wasn’t you and I was happy. Epiphany
It came to me today, this revelation of our future apart. I sat in a coffee shop, listening to people read poems or the works of others, some dead, some living, and I thought, what should happen to my poems if I died? I shuddered, seeing you at my desk, reading my poems because you don’t even read them now and I think you’ll never want to read them-- all the other mouths, the hands that weren’t yours, the fantasies I made up to replace what wasn’t there, but how are you to know the difference, to separate the fact from fiction? Then I picture you rummaging through my desk, finding notes not in your handwriting, smelling of oceans, of musk, of not you, reaching me in ways I’d wished you could. |
