, Waltzing, Waiting for 

 

 

You, and nothing left to say that hasn't been said before, through tangled tongue. Through defeat. Language is benign. Language is broken. Language is not enough. Language will fail us all.     You, at the bar. Your mouth, the rim of a volcano, and a cigarette. Serrated smiles that cut for miles.      You, the unholy rose. Flighty flower that careens on spindrift heels. Through the violet haze. Through electric fog. You, like Earth's last moon on fire. Pink and smoldering, princess and dragon, all in one.      You, you lie, your thorns are quite soft. You, not as tough as you'd have them believe.      You, and wrists like silent rain. Deep blue Claire de Lune. Mulling in the mist, coughing colorful.      You, as the holy horse, galloping up and over, over and off to shatter the icy seas below. You, into the arms singing Geronimo.           You, bluegreen guillotine eyes. Gypsy funeral sunset eyes.     You, who floods the deserts, entombs the mountains, scoops out the hills, strips the heavens. You, disinventing the cosmos over an asymmetrical cleft in the moon, or just for a laugh on Saturday night.     You, your foolish faith in heat. You, standing in the road, aiming matches at the sun.     You, bound by gravity. Falling is requisite for rising. You, a clamor of clouds, your monarch wings of oblivion. Future like the shimmering Pacific. When flight fails, we'll learn to swim. Still paddling, Still paddling.     You, fighting. Sucking razor blades, your guard down. You, the casualty. Prayers that are screamed into pillows. Fingernails that dig in the dirt. You, giving up.           You, branded in the school of fire. Imperious with filth. Nails through the hand.             You, wrapped in a rind of flame, perfect twirling inferno. Pirouetting pavement. Waiting for the rain. Waiting for the end.     You, and the fear. Dripping dizzy in the dark.      You, your world trembling, tipped off its axis. I'm sorry.    You, and me: a short history of everything good, everything bad, and the infinite if.    Us, and nothing and everything left to regret. The fine china and fancy teacups of memory tumbling off the shelf, crashing.