it is said,
is a healer.
there is no action that comes to mind, beyond distance.
hours could be lost in
what I watched you do.
I could waste the rest of my life
in the deep burn of all the years
prior to your cosmetic repair and rewrite,
never losing one single detail of what is
unforgettable about you.
we all have our own little shop
of horrors comitted to a different house of memory,
doors mouldering into compost.
slowly but surely
this breathing with it's carbon monoxide
will render it all dust.
eyebrows opening wings outstretched,
smile lifting the weight of acceptance,
lips spread to express the refusal of it's importance.
nevertheless, note the teeth no wall against
the taste of judgement, persecution and loss;
quite familiar with how the soul rids itself
of poison from the bottom of the belly up.
the edges of the opening
pulls spines much straighter,
thighs feeling the pre spring of weightlessness,
feet nearly flying while
kissing the ground by way of sky.
as I look down on your face,
seeing you as a child when there were hopes for your shining,
no one there knowing anything much beyond your misery
but inconvenienced frustration,
there really is no going back and fixing anything.
all the money in the world
can't hide your face that cried broken as a child
and shifted into the pulled wretched
expression of being
motivated by envy as an adult.
there's only pity for the empty hunger
for love that shone on brightness shadowing
your personal and obvious lack of it.
mostly, I can't help you with any of that,
though I have wished that I could
change your ways,
it's always been out of my hands.
what you are beginning to comprehend
in limited scope is both much more
and much less threatening
than you could possibly imagine.
I'm not sorry
only far away from you,
making love potion # 11 to heal us and
casting my spells into poetic pieces of eight.