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No Dressing
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I can't
carry you
on my back
into the ocean or
feel the cold waves splash music throughout our
bodies or
taste the desire to love from your salted tongue. I can't embrace your warmth, but I can still remember.
I can't listen to you pour out secrets of your past life - the dirty old man next door, your very first love so you thought, your childhood fantasies of happiness and the white doll you cherished.
I can't fall to sleep in your massaging hands then feel you spatter my face with spitballs or
sit lower in my seat while you scold me to embarrassment on a crowded bus
or have you insult my manhood as you "just thought of something funny" in the middle of a kiss.
I can't wreck your bike anymore, but I can still remember
I can't wrap you in my arms in sunlight-moonlight hours of restful calm trying to distinguish nature's fragrance from your perfume, feeling the sting from your playful hand remind me that I'm squeezing too tightly.
I can't design with you plans for our future lives or
touch that once sensitive soul, now so unconcerned or
re-live the moments you whispered you loved me.
I can't see your smile, but I can still remember.
I can't walk with you from downtown to uptown to downtown until day breaks, then wipe a tear that tells me "one week will seem like forever." Don't I know it. I can't talk with you for hours and never tire. I can't,
but I can still remember.
I can't stand the cackling sound of your skull rolling 'round the wheels of a truck or feel the horror of total uselessness as you scream my name or see your lovely brown eyes sink in blood. I can't watch you die,
but oh, God I can . . .
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