and distance



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,

as always,

making love potion # 11 to heal us and

casting my spells into poetic pieces of eight.

surreal poetry
Susan Loehe
Susan Loehe
Read next: Poem: New Life
Susan Loehe
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