What You Will

And in those same murky streets you retrace your steps. Now, down the crooked memory lanes and desolate roads there are only the whisper ghosts of the long dead past. Every regret, oh, how we come to resent our own bodies. Oh, the filth. Someone crosses in an alleyway and you stop cold in your tracks.

The voices of children, now grown, but forever young in your mind. Every misstep and embarassed awkward embrace. You haven't much choice but to continue the familiar breathing pattern: inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. All the youthful adherents of the temple to disappointment: all lined up in a row.

Feels so slow now. Even so, I sit and watch you on a Spanish riverbank, perhaps two years ago. In my mind's eye I see you clearly now. I see the blue-red anguish of crippling self-doubt in your mirror. I missed my chance. No one else feels like you. My life is all miserable pleasantries and the idle observance of night turning day. Over and over. Shame, shame, shame.

And now the whisper ghosts wrap 'round you like a warm winter coat. The cold arctic wind sweeps through these streets. Even when the world is melting, it comes so icy, so bitter, so dry. I wake with faint pains. The old aches are there too, somewhere underneath the surface. Lurking, lurking.

I see a patch of frost from my summery glade. I walk into your memory. I surprise you in your dreams. All dressed up in restless tweed and I'm itching for your touch. I never really embrace you. I'm afraid to.

The doorbell: I can't hear it's toll. In a fit of youthful passion, I remember trying to go back. Some high school function, and you were there late. I resolved to wait with you before your father arrived to take you back home. I returned too late. Maybe you saw me as the car disappeared in the dark. The tail lights were bloody streaks, bittersweet.

You look so pretty now. Not pretty, but I can't make my tongue form the word without embarassing myself. It starts with you but it echoes in the canyons and crevices of my empty chest. Buried little treasures: x's mark the spots in the sand. Some of it's quicksand. How can I know where to dig without sinking. It's the only way to drown with both feet planted on the ground. Mother Earth betrays you. Pulled under and one with the entombed. I have now visions of Egypt from my shady glen. I wish, I wish, I wish.

As I so often speak of it, I am reluctant to mention to you, my love, the River Nile. Where your name is writ on the surface of the water. The current runs north, and like you it never stops running. In my dream you are the River Queen, upon the long boat, draped majestic. Leaves me now, escapes me.

And now you are sweet. Nothing.