Like a Dream

I finally see why I can't forget you.
I finally see why I can't remember you.

The sky is blue and always
   has been.
The sky is falling and always
                                    was
in bits, like rain, and you never
listened,
                           and still,
it's not enough
to wet my memory, the sparse
                        landscape
of who you
     were
or who I was, or who
     we were.

The space I've kept you stored in is
           almost empty,
and the space you held when you were
                             here,
is still
intact,
and every time I lost
                 the key,
                           you had a spare.
But now the locks are changed and you
                                             evade me.

I try hard to recall each first we shared.
I check my skin for signs of cleaving.
Scars
from where you carved our scène à faire.
I am trying to
find the girl I was or the man I thought
you were.
My recollection
and my vision
bends toward the end.
There are track marks not on my heart
but on my
soul,
muddied, sullying the framework of my
mind,
so that I have to wonder if
I was ever sane.

You are like a dream I think I might
          return to
if my eyes
              stay shut,
so I've saved you in some upper recess
of the brain where you might slide back
into view in dark of night.
Because I could never see you in the day
and I traded sight for feel,
for trace of flesh.
And I thought you had pierced me with
your name but like scarlet henna, it's
fast fading.  Like the taste,
too, of you.  Carbonated.  Flat.  Deflated
words are all you speak without
my breath.  Still, I hear you humming
                   somewhere behind me,
                   reminding me of life,
and all
I ever vied for.

Did I dare to stare into your eyes,
                           endeavoring to find
                           reflection?
Did they dance or dart or glitter or give
                 any hint at all
of caring?
Did they endear me, the girl who wanted
                 only something real?
Did they caress my needs, undress defenses?
Did your hands ever
really touch me?  Did you only tuck me in
                                        under illuminating
                                                  lies?
Did our bodies form a pair or did
I starve in singleness of purpose beneath
                                                  illusion?
It's hard
to tell.
Do you know now
                    what I know?
Do I know now what you knew then?
Do you know?
Did you know?
Did I?  Is there anything to know?  Did
I expect too much?  Too little?

Give me back my knowledge.  Give me
back the girl I was because what I'm left
with is just a prickling like hives when I
try to scrub the dirt away.
An invisible, tingling illness in
my nerves because how does one begin
to suffer an imaginary loss?
How does one grieve a ghost?

The sky
is still
blue and always
                  will be
and I am beholden to the pieces left behind.
To bits like hail that strike like
            lightening
the place I stand and I collect them
to remember you.  I treasure
them like rare antiques and I polish
them in your memory and then they
melt, and I forget.

The Sunday Whirl