A Few Favorite Things...

I do still remember,

How with a fury,

I would count each of the speckled tiles in your bedroom ceiling.

And trace them each violently with my retina,

As you answered your phone, hushed,

Saying, ill call you back later.

 

How could I say that my favorite thing, was dying,

That my tulip was wilting under the snow,

And if only my breath on your neck could keep you warm enough,

To remain coursing the veins in your petals.

 

How could I tell you,

Without piercing the moment,

That our world was falling apart.

 

How your photo album,

Pulled out as though I could sort it,

As you thumbed through each archived and guarded memory,

Adding spoken notes that disappeared with each turning page,

As they push me farther away.

 

On the plane there was a lot of time to think,

To cogitate the mess I was hurdling to the middle of,

How I should have stuck to my guns,

And stayed home wondering instead,

How your room looked with me in the mirror,

With my arm draped delicately around you.

 

I made it just in time,

For the biopsy and then,

A quick game of jealousy,

Before the talk came of irradiating your body.

 

How could I expect from myself,

Anything but a calm whisper,

To describe what I love,

And how it was dying.

 

And how you took my hand when the plane landed,

Like you had forgotten your lover already,

And ready for me to meet your mom,

My other hand is open to shake,

The same mom I forever avoided,

By asking you not to swallow all your pills at once.

 

When nights later we came close to making love,

But you had tears in your eyes,

Because it was to soon to be with me again,

You were still thinking about him,

Or you wanted to avoid confusion,

As warm limbs seem so similar in a dark room.

 

And we walked that big bridge,

Over a half frozen river,

You will admit that you were petrified,

And part in jest and part in suicidal mood,

You said it might be best to throw you over.

 

You wore faux brown fur,

And the rims of your glasses,

Were as cold as your lips,

And the tip of your trembling nose,

 

We could steal out into the night,

Or see the sights by the complacent daylight of winter,

Watch freezing rain accumulate on the dinner steps,

As we munch cherry pie,

And meatloaf.

 

I avoided your eyes,

Through three flights of museum,

Seeing all the work of dead Andy Worhol,

With a floor for JFK,

 

I made poetry in the antique shop that your mother frequents,

Where she took us to see sculptures,

And an enclave of old lamps and wall hangings,

Where you picked out a table,

That for months you said belonged in our home together.

 

Every site was shouted out,

Like a tour bus driver,

As I took second seat,

And sat with hands folded,

Posture designed to look calm,

And misconceive everyone around me.

 

Every moment in your city,

Like a tumor of my very own,

A reminder of where I am not needed,

When we pass by the brick towers,

And I imagine he is looking down waving,

From the cozy apartment,

Where he took you away.

 

It’s not your fault that the city is vile,

And that each time you neglect your phone,

I want to look inside,

Out of pure animal jealousy.

 

The human species possesses several strange breeding strategies…

 

And I do remember,

Each dimple and dot in the ceiling,

As we slowly fell in love again,

And back out to something more like resentment.

 

I still remember,

How you sleep when you’re angry,

How you hug when you’re genuinely glad to see me.

How you pretend to love,

How you use.

 

I told you that day on the telephone,

That it wasn’t a good way to say goodbye,

By trying your act all over again.

 

I remember the note you wrote,

Saying all the right things about why we should be together,

So long after the fact,

So long after your lover.

 

I remember eighteen long miles,

In the evening ride home,

With your head in my lap,

The occasional smile up.

 

I remember less as the sub tropical sun bleaches my mind,

And as the cocktail of depression and dystopia wear on,

Yet I will always remember,

That my favorite things die.