rare july, burning

It is the sudden

Pickup of a snare,

A drawn out stare

Into mahogany eyes

In a filthy circus mirror,

Inquiring in bathtub faucets,

Why

Is all that is alive

Melting into amber?

How is it

That I am haunted

When I swore I knew better?

I waste half of a

Rare July, burning

All of these strings,

One by one,

Calling upon the hellfire

For our spiritual denouement.

I could omit any sleep

To sand all of my floors,

Kill each trace of him

Soiling my summer air

Only to keep, keep, keep

Grinding my teeth,

Scraping my tongue,

Rid my reality

Of his significance

Or how this has beset me.

Waste a holy memory

On the Ego versus Grief.

What a disservice

Toward my younger self’s joy

To banish amid hysteria

All residuum

Of something I nearly loved.

What you give

Is not simply spent—

What you take

Is not simply kept.

These sparks,

We carry for lifetimes

Lovelorn or requited.

- m. rose