Not now, Aeolius, not now.
I wrote this to tell you, I'm not going to write you. Not going to write for you now.
And this is how you repay me.
This is the way you see fit to thank me, shake me, wake me up to what you call your "morning light". This is the reward that I get paid by personal check - for being near you, being with you, being for you. This is the payment, put on your debit card, that you felt compassionate enough to send me via post; and this, the verdict you're convinced makes you merciful, makes you gracious, names you mercy itself. This, the way you show me you adore me.
Wait a minute. Your adoration isn't even appreciated here, is it? Nor are your smiles made of poison and monkey-wire and chicken-shit. Or your payment, your scorn, your broken trappings of your years of hunting. Your dead prey at the base of my drying steps. Your useless bound-up hands at the foot of my wintery old, ratty deathbed.
That is how you repay me.
Let me make it simple for you.
--don't mourn.
In my notes before I left you, I forgot a few things. Forgot to tell you how you ought to've waited up for me. Cuz you'd forget if I didn't remind you; we knew that. But I went off and married you - held you, caressed you, kissed you, made love to you anyway. Stupid, thick-headed little southern girl went off and loved for you anyway.
I forgot to tell you not to leave the door unlocked, or the lights on, or the room -where you'd be asleep- cracked open a little, so I could still hear you breathing on the other side of it. Forgot to tell you not to uproot the geraniums at the base of that window box where our dreams planted them. Forogt to tell you not to light the mirror on fire - or warn you they don't burn too well. Forgot to leave you the note telling you I didn't turn off the gas on the stove in that old closet we used as a kitchen. Forgot to leave the matches behind so you could light them in there anyway.
Forgot to tell you I wanted to hurt you or kill you or heal you. Or just love you forever. But it's too late. Too late to save you, to fix me, to salvage something recognizable from the flames that wicker heart of mine set to burning. Too late to just tell you, I do still want to. Too late to restake the tents, to inhale that breath that left you and made this all disappear. Too late to undo. Too late to change. Too late to come alive again.
Too late to affect you.
-RK
And this is how you repay me.
This is the way you see fit to thank me, shake me, wake me up to what you call your "morning light". This is the reward that I get paid by personal check - for being near you, being with you, being for you. This is the payment, put on your debit card, that you felt compassionate enough to send me via post; and this, the verdict you're convinced makes you merciful, makes you gracious, names you mercy itself. This, the way you show me you adore me.
Wait a minute. Your adoration isn't even appreciated here, is it? Nor are your smiles made of poison and monkey-wire and chicken-shit. Or your payment, your scorn, your broken trappings of your years of hunting. Your dead prey at the base of my drying steps. Your useless bound-up hands at the foot of my wintery old, ratty deathbed.
That is how you repay me.
Let me make it simple for you.
--don't mourn.
In my notes before I left you, I forgot a few things. Forgot to tell you how you ought to've waited up for me. Cuz you'd forget if I didn't remind you; we knew that. But I went off and married you - held you, caressed you, kissed you, made love to you anyway. Stupid, thick-headed little southern girl went off and loved for you anyway.
I forgot to tell you not to leave the door unlocked, or the lights on, or the room -where you'd be asleep- cracked open a little, so I could still hear you breathing on the other side of it. Forgot to tell you not to uproot the geraniums at the base of that window box where our dreams planted them. Forogt to tell you not to light the mirror on fire - or warn you they don't burn too well. Forgot to leave you the note telling you I didn't turn off the gas on the stove in that old closet we used as a kitchen. Forgot to leave the matches behind so you could light them in there anyway.
Forgot to tell you I wanted to hurt you or kill you or heal you. Or just love you forever. But it's too late. Too late to save you, to fix me, to salvage something recognizable from the flames that wicker heart of mine set to burning. Too late to just tell you, I do still want to. Too late to restake the tents, to inhale that breath that left you and made this all disappear. Too late to undo. Too late to change. Too late to come alive again.
Too late to affect you.
-RK
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