I have long forgotten who you are – or so I’ve tried. The man who smiled like John F. Kennedy and pulled me out into a drunken sea of sunken hearts. Perhaps I was bit naïve to think it would last with time to come.
You were riding Saturn’s orbit off in a decade further in the future. And in my quarter-life crisis, not yet old enough to recognize lust, I saw potential in a garden that was never meant to blossom into anything much.
On your skin is a tattoo of a unicorn and on mine is where your fingernails use to scratch. No, you were not perfect. But then again, perfection is in the lie of the beholder, because my emerald eyes saw the soul beneath.
Your body was warm, and in the mouth’s cradle I was a baby longing for life’s mysteries. With my face against a bristle chest, anxieties silenced their prodding screams. Tomorrow never seemed to bother me.
High off your touch, my pentagram hands cast a love spell. Each point different in identity, I caressed your body and tried so hard to melt together. That was my idea of Heaven: a homogeneous mixture.
I even recall treating God like a Magic 8-Ball and asking the depths of his liquid blue if you desired me as a child from muddy slums desires to see New York City, and after shaking him around for a bit, I got an answer I didn’t want.
For your messages were never returned and a rather cold and familiar silence dropped like copper delusions in a dry well. This was when I realized that there are other pennies in this world to pinch and that I was one of a dollar.
So I stopped chasing you like diluted vodka, and found other eplacements to feel as if I was one of kind, and with each doll I prayed they would wrap around my words like you did when you commented my voice was sweet as Southern tea.
None of them the same, but enough to forget your name; this is what I do, I move along quickly to outrun the speed of melancholy. Because to live in my own disappointments give that which hurts me the benefit.
And to this day, I sit in the basement of a bar and watch you from the darkness. When we cross paths, I say Hello and shake your hand, because Christmas has passed and your brown specks tend to reply, It was fun while it lasted.
Oh, how they charm me, like glamour from the moon’s aura; there is always this gravitational pull that almost seems inevitable to resist. My tongue demands to infiltrate your mouth and tie a bow fit to place a gift.
However, down in the soul’s cavern, a hairline crack forms in my heart. Thunderheads, heavy with rain, open up and do not pour. In a swirling, still tornado of emotion and need, I pull together porcelain and look away.
~ I will never reveal who this poem is about.