The Last Girl

For K.T.
Believe or not, I woke up this morning
and cried for you beneath black shadows
of the morning wake, under a comforter
so the world outside could not see through
my window.
To peek at the one who ruined a friendship,
the former boy anachronism, the once
arrogant and now caught between the lines
of Isiah 2:11. I quivered in emotions and
opened flood gates.
This is what happens when a decade is divided
in two, and the parts we try to forget come
back to haunt us in dreams. A dream of you
and how the subconscious can be a torture
chamber of repression.
Back when we were children in the ice palace,
the sky was gold that day after the sun
pierced through black clouds gathered above
the city’s architecture. You wore organza that
flowed like a current.
Aqua blue, if I recall correctly, and I stood in a
tux fit for a funeral home, and I carried you to the
ball in not a pumpkin transformed, but a red
Cherokee that guzzled fuel. Had I known what
would happen, I’d driven a hearse.
You were a queen fit for your mother’s shoe
and your father’s eyes that barely got a glimpse
of you; fascinated by Greek mythology and
Atilla the Hun. As a matter of fact, I believe
you corrected my spelling of Ares.
And physically, I represented everything
they wanted: a beautiful, handsome boy who
might have been ideal, but thoughts of gas
ovens and carbon monoxide choked me up.
God, if only it were electric.
I could have made it magical, I suppose,
flicked my wist and spruced your hair; however,
the male ego and society makes an awful
pair, like oil and water or Kool-Aid and arsenic.
Believe me when I say I wasn’t aware.
For there is a darkness that comes with
these things, blacker than spades and more
angry than God. I would say it’s Marble-heavy
with a bag full of myself, but I believe you’ve
heard enough of that in one lifetime.
But do you remember when we traveled to
the beach and ate a restaurant by the coast?
They didn’t ask for our identification and
I thought it would be nice to have a toast.
You refused and compared it to heroin.
I may have been one for the capsules and
marijuana, but at least I knew the difference
between a liquid heart bitter as a tart and a
needle aimed for the veins. You have to
admit, sometimes temptation is fine.
Nevertheless, we walked on sand and felt
the glass shards of winter cut through pale
on pale. Despite your step-father’s hatred
of me, you must never forget we did hold
each others hands.
And even through all the echoes and kush
scented naivety, I admire how you survived
the whirlpool in the middle of the Bermuda
triangle: Me, him, and the love I could
never have.
Much like a hurricane, I followed you around
and eventually broke apart into a tropical
depression. I tried to fit the remnants back
to together, but if there’s one thing I have
learned is that storms must pass.
In the eye of it all, crushed by circular walls
and barometric pressure, the one memory
that can never fade is when you said I
was in Indian in your eyes. Your calm voice,
I don’t believe it should ever die.
This is why I decided to write about you,
because the moment one kisses a poet they
are granted the gift of immortality. And before
I cut it off and attempt to stitch the wounds,
you need to know this:
Every man who hides in a wardrobe and
refuses to see the stars have not the intentions
to harm a goddess, but to find something within
them they desperately want. They pick these
flowers for protection.
These kinds of men feel soft like a snail beneath
a shell and fear the world’s salt, and they want
nothing more than an acquired taste for sugar.
It’s less about a doll to use, but a deliverance
that can never be.
I hope you live forever in search of Julius Caesar
at a salad bar and understand the garden’s are always
plentiful with nutrients in order to grow. Because
in the fruit basket I have learned the same and
search for emperor.
And never feel that you are not beautiful, know
the vase is always full, and continue to pour water
down streams and feed the ocean with your wisdom.
I will always be grateful for your presence, even if our
roads will never cross.
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Published by

craneknewitt

I have currently been busy with life and I will be re-publishing older poems. New poems will come. I'm always under construction.

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