Entangled
(arms, legs; staccato-heartbeats, and shapers of language),
as though on a quantum level.
At first, so close, and then,
suddenly—
in the span of three days—
nearly a continent apart.
I am sorry.
Everything you did influenced me in some way,
though you would not have it, and did not want
the tether to remain.
Two thousand miles and eighteen months of separation—
measurement, the old detractor, the destructor as it Where—
we decohered, connections failing, falling into disrepair.
I left. You despaired.
You told me you loved me,
and yet…
here we are:
here I am, and here
(less than a mile, again)
you are, and are not.
I am naught.
And yet…
all at once, I, too, am far too much.
What to say?
You hold too much sway over me—
enough.
I loved you once.
Somewhere inside, not too deep,
I hold that same love for you.
It will not go away.
For you, there will always be some space,
but I can safeguard it no longer.
You have not claimed it—
you do not want it— and so:
I seek to banish you.
With all my might, I will try
to cut every tie, cords wrapped around me
undone, untwined, and— gods damn it—
fully-severed, if so it must be.
…
…
…
To the overcast Skies, blanketing this city with the quintessence of haze;
to the diffuse Light of March, easing our eyes into the brilliance of Spring;
to the barely-bare Trees, budding out tentatively amidst the first uncertain days in the fifties;
to the Daffodils, the Crocus, Lilies of the Valley;
to the Aether, Dark Energy, and the voids they fill in our lives, in our Physical theories;
to the stilled waters of Mishigami, suspended between winter’s ice heaves and the endless waves of summer;
sixfold Deities— greater or lesser— I ask for your guidance
in a matter of things most in-between:
I request your assistance in determining
how to cut ties from a man I once loved.
To the nebulous man, whose manhood is brought into question by a lack of tenacity;
to the liminal lover, whose absence I cannot shake:
I ask for some respite; resolution; closure.
For mine own Self, who cannot let go;
for mine own Self, who loves both because and despite:
daily reaffirmations, to ground me in the present moment.
Rituals and practices to keep my toes pointed forward, with my heels following suit.
An abstinence from substances which might rake me across the coals;
exercise to soothe me; movement to ground me in the anti-inflammatory.
May the muddied haze of March Skies mollify my plight;
the cloying clouds about my head kindly dampen the Light
of Spring come too early— assuaging the ache
of a Truth I must face:
yet another cord cut, a tie come undone—
the pang more a familiar than any friend now or former.
And may these clouds soon clear, as I am ready—
may the Sun soon burn hot holes through the fugue,
beams alighting warmly upon budding branches.
Slowly, and with some caution, may they begin to leaf out:
suffused with Truth, turning Light into food, bathing the world
in emerald-green, a daytime gloaming.
Topsoil defrosted, emitting once more
the scent of new ozone: the chill, and the Freezing,
banished righteously: a mantling
of Flowers, both fragrant and deadly
(toxic and intoxicating),
spreading beneath every burgeoning limb.
Incandescent inflorescence upon every lawn and hillside,
reminding me again of both poison and growth.
Dark Energy;
Luminiferous Aether;
Quintessence.
More space
between us continuing
to come into existence.
My “biggest blunder”
suddenly making sense:
our decohesion, decoherence
(particles moving in waveforms,
the two of us)…
…
…
…
Return to Mishigami:
where blue meets blue
and the atmosphere colludes
with the cerulean waters
of the Lake.
Stilled waves:
suspension between
winter’s floes and ice heaves
and the rolling surf of a blazing summer.
Whether Frozen or warm;
whether immobilized and jagged,
or ferocious and liquid—
I have a need for movement.
Whether strewn about the shore,
piling up in craggy and barren hills— or
whether tumbling, untethered
and cataclysmic, onto the sand—
beating rocks and jagged glass
into smooth gems as I foam and recede,
strength and ferocity
abating in an instant-—
I will always return to stillness,
to some space in between.
As the Sun sets,
so too
does my face smooth
over, and soften.
Black, and glassy,
reflecting the Light of the Moon:
promising absolution.
