Circe

It never happened

in a way I could see it.

Never came plain,

never spoke its name.

There was no time to plan,

or chance to face it head-on.

No violent hand.

No grand display.

Just damage dressed sweet

with seductive perfume on.

~~~

It came with diamond lips—

where soft words break.

Diamond kiss,

meant to intoxicate.

A cotton mouth

that could comfort

before the sting—

make blood go thin as thread

with venom invading the veins.

~~~

Rationed grace

to keep doubt alive.

Rationed taste

to keep thirst in line.

Careful hands,

teasing embrace—

just enough heaven

to keep me in place.

~~~

You do damage in a sweet way.

That line tolls on

like a bell at a wake.

Grief is not always

a grave you can see.

Sometimes grief is the man

you stop being.

~~~

I disappear

in measured parts:

first in the hinge

behind the heart,

then in the trust

that once came free,

then in the shape

I knew as me.

~~~

A little at a time,

the light goes dim.

A little at a time,

the edges bend.

A little at a time,

the earth gives in.

A little at a time,

I creep toward the end.

~~~

That is the march of it,

mute and mild—

no great collapse,

No public trial.

No cracked-out sky,

no funeral flame,

just whispers that peel

the real away.

~~~

You fed the need,

then took it back.

You taught me to shrink

behind the mask.

You dangled love

like a pendant—a charm,

all while the spell

did subtle harm.

~~~

You felt like heaven,

so I stayed in hell.

That is a hard kind

of truth to tell.

To mourn not just you,

but the self I misplaced,

the man growing faint

while you captivate.

~~~

Did I ever have your heart?

Or was I just meant

to play my part?

Maybe grief is a question

that never gets solved,

just a name that still echoes

after it’s called.

~~~

And yours does.

Circe.

It circles still—

through the blood gone cold,

through the stunned-down will.

Through the late-night hush

when the room turns strange,

and I feel old hunger

for more of the change.

~~~

Mostly I mourn not

for your body or spell.

Not for the angelic face

that led me to hell.

Not for the sweet kiss

that held back your teeth.

Not for the poison

that hid in belief.

~~~

No—

this is for the man inside,

the one reduced

by mischievous tide.

The shadowed self,

the weathered frame,

the mind that winced

when it heard its name.

~~~

This is for what

didn’t die in one blow,

but went dim by degrees,

conviction bright low.

For the soul shaved down

by the softest art,

for the slow eclipse

of a faithful heart.

~~~

So lay him here—

not weak, not small,

just worn by whispers,

of a siren’s call.

And let what remains,

remain:

the echo, the ache,

the bruise in the brain,

~~~

the diamond kiss,

the intoxicant ache,

the diamond lips

where soft words break.

~~~

And let me say it

clear at last,

for the man I was

before the spell was cast.