Her here

So I've home to the here here and the you here and the not here - and the documents you left; a hat on the wrong chair, matching sneakers (pink for casual runs), these crumbled sheets...I don't know what tomorrow brings, it must be full of certainties - faint ruffles, our yawning deep such that we've no solution but to love. This method, well I call it living and now you've departed, there's this gap - a heaving arch my sole bed - so now the you here, not here, tonight makes even leaves have secrets and the my here ache to know

the divine comedy

So I've bullet-holes up my sleeve and yet, the tricks ring false in the sweet arena of our new youth - and when I to you (that disappearing but sings) and ask why this me - you smile all arch and fringe and beauty, pop and olive and hold me till I quiver

There was a time when you put the boy before the pain - but what can you do to prove it?

I've some kitchen-ware affidavits - a cunning wrapped testament to matching sets of dreams

And now, in this high shine when I find the spine of me blistering and bountiful - I tire to remember when there's brighter sparks in my orbit

And they're most almost lovely beyond

it's only in the quiet deep crash of a river-front steam
that the evening, all sweet and sorry, seems to suffer
an excess of altitude, doubles back in on itself, the street-wise
confluence of things we used to be
I can't say to you I love you because when I leave the you there -
a hanging triptych - it batters out the night and flickering insects, eagre
to leave their wings fixed to my window bank on my leaving -
so when I can say, to you say, that there's this ragged thing
and when I beat my breast it beats back, I want to look a fool to
show that there's a something there, where you're not

that's not fair...you don't get to remember me like you never left...