A Song of Despair

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

Write, for instance: “The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance.”

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved him, and sometimes he loved me too.

On nights like this, I held him in my arms.
I kissed him so many times under the infinite sky.

He loved me, sometimes I loved him.
How could I not have loved his large, still eyes?

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don’t have him. To feel that I’ve lost him.

To hear the immense night, more immense without him.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.

What does it matter that my love couldn’t keep him.
The night is full of stars and he is not with me.

That’s all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without him.

As if to bring him near, my eyes search for him.
My heart searches for him and he is not with me.

The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.

I no longer love him, true, but how much I loved him.
My voice searched the wind to touch his ear.

Someone else’s. He will be someone else’s. As he once
belonged to my kisses.
His voice, his light body. His infinite eyes.

I no longer love him, true, but perhaps I love him.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.

Because on nights like this I held him in my arms,
my soul is lost without him.

Although this may be the last pain he causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for him.

Insomnia and her friend, Loneliness

The birds are singing to me again
at 4 in the morning.

It’s always at this hour that they begin to serenade me.
Oh but surely, it’s not of love.

It’s just to reassure me that I’ve had another scandalous affair with Insomnia. They’re always the first ones to remind me of how adulterous I am.

Can you blame me?

How can I pass up the offer when Insomnia’s
knocking at my door with a new pair of lingerie
colored so beautifully in misery —
with a bottle of regret in her hand.
Not to mention her fine friend,
Loneliness.

These two always make my night, I tell ya.

But these birds are like my conscience,
but then again,
who the hell listens to their conscience anyway?
Eventually they’ll go away.

‘til the sun comes out and laughs in my face:
“Another sleepless night? Stay up babe, the day’s
just getting started.”

Go to hell.

And of course lovely Insomnia with her beloved Loneliness leave before then, but not before they strip me of sleep.

As always, I’m drunk with regret.
Nothing new. I’ve gotten used to the bitter taste
it leaves at the end of my tongue.

But still I assure you: I am not an alcoholic.

That’s just the price to pay for the company of Insomnia
and her friend, Loneliness.

 I’m still young. I’ve got plenty of more nights
before I can’t afford to lose sleep on you, Insomnia.
So come again with your friend,
while I’m still young.

and let the birds sing me another song.

Touched

You have touched every important part of me 

with your words,

with your mouth,

with your soul,

or your hands. 

There is nothing more comforting

or terrifying than that.