I feel I can write poetry again
Not because I’m sad
Not because the blackness
Of your face as we make love
Makes its easier
Not because I won’t miss you.
The distance between our faces
Is a burden
On my already shunted,
My valves are made of tape
I stretch frailly along the length of your body
Praying to a God
That I’m not even sure I believe in,
That the bandages hold,
Because I can’t remember the last time
I felt so out of control.
But I feel like I can write poetry again.
I feel your muscles tense
Feel you, as you pull back
And try to find me in the dark.
I am just as blind.
I think about God in this moment—
What is He, but hope for something
What is God but hope
Against the relentless reality
Of life’s wasting moments
What are we but uncertain?
I feel you pull away
To look at me.
I feel like crying.
Your face, that squinting canvas,
Is nothing in this place
Where I feel I should know you,
Where the wanting to know you
Is the only absolute.
I think about God in this moment
And I feel like I can write poetry again.
But I’m afraid that this is the last one
I will write about you.
Author: Chelsea Griffin
Image: Natalia Drepina/Deviantart
Editor: Lieselle Davidson