My Valentine

Tortuously,
I keep looking for something
that isn't there
right now, at least-
I feel strongly
compulsive. I still seek signs
first thing in the morning
like that one unforgettable
affair
uncovered by footprint,
a betrayal disguised
as an innocent amble
an estrangement you
desired irrisitably
and unregrettably.

Now that I have seen
deleted texts sent and received
more than dirty fingerprints,
this is DNA,
a wound
Spring inside the rib cage
re-tearing old wounds
the clicking like rage
in my ear

and I see how naturally
this discovery
reveals a new PTSD
in me-

a bomb exploded
my heart imploded
screams held back
my blood ran out

but I stayed, trembling at times
to face the enemy
closest-
when he
finally turns around
and notices me-

clutching a lit grenade
with the same gripping fear
that has kept me here
holding on
for too long.


Painting by John Collier (1850-1934), ;The fallen idol; c. 1913 in Public domain.

An Affair with the Start

I try not to deny

there are others

who like me

who relish

the intimacy

of sunrise.

But every dark morning to myself

makes me think, over time,

for a few stolen moments

I exist in the world.

That dusky dawning sky sees me there

ruminating as I revel

in its wee hours

most others (dis)miss.

Sleep does not compare

to the sun's awakening;

peeling back the purple sheet,

lightening up

and stirring the ashy cirrus

lit only by our clandestine routine.

It is between us

that watch the sunset, 

contentedly,

winking when the green flash

sparks oohs and ahhhs,

sometimes

called inspiration 

in others.

Yet it tells me, with envy,

our tryst will continue

tomorrow

as soon as 

I rise

for our sub rosa occasion,
the best part of mourning
the day.

Image of painting By T.C. Steele, Sunrise (1847 - 1926) (American) (Artist, Details of artist on Google Art Project) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.