Bitter

Like so much tragedy,
and accident.
Four months,
maybe five but surely
not so long as
half a year ago
you came into my world;
brought a candle
in my night,
disturbed my darkness
with your fragile light.
And it--
But it was okay,
when you did that,
because maybe at that
precise moment I did not
notice,
did not care.
Maybe just then,
with your laughter in my ear
and your arms
wrapped so warm around me
I wanted only you,
and the darkness was no longer
a friend.

But I was fool.
And I am an idiot.

Happiness,
I think,
is fleeting by its very nature.
Virtue is harder to hold
than vice because it is light,
and where shadow sticks,
stains against your skin
its brother remains elusive
and slips through the cracks
between fist and fingertip.
To hold happiness
is to clutch the wind
close to your heart;
to hold you
was to hold the wind
close to my heart.

The chill has burned me.
And the burn will scar me.

Even angels,
I have learned,
can lie--
as empires will
inevitably fall,
as even immortals must
inevitably die.
The candle is gone and now,
now that the darkness is not the lack
of light but its sudden abscence,
I find my old friend turned against me.
I find that even Wrath
with his familar embrace,
his familiar murmur and snarl
is more cold than comfort
in your passioned wake.

But these friends,
I have learned,
will not leave me.
I close my eyes and I set
my hands afire,
to forget the touch of yours against them.
I open my arms,
and I fall against your trembling dawn
to drag it down.
I carve the memory
of your wings into my room
and it is torn asunder
by tooth and nail.
I am a fool--
but I will not remain an idiot.
I have been burned--
but I will cut away my scars.

Tragedy is accidental.
Recovery is spite--
like burning out that final candle
and casting angels
to the night.  






September 20 2003