I feel I can write poetry again

Not because I’m sad
Not because the blackness
Of your face as we make love
Makes its easier

Not because I won’t miss you.
The distance between our faces
Is a burden
On my already shunted,
Spluttering heart.
My valves are made of tape
And glue.

I stretch frailly along the length of your body
Praying to a God
That I’m not even sure I believe in,
Praying
That the bandages hold,
Praying
Because I can’t remember the last time
I felt so out of control.

But I feel like I can write poetry again.

I feel your muscles tense
Feel you, as you pull back
And try to find me in the dark.

I am just as blind.

I think about God in this moment—
What is He, but hope for something
Anything,
Everything?
What is God but hope
Against the relentless reality
Of life’s wasting moments
And death?

What are we but uncertain?

I feel you pull away
To look at me.
I feel like crying.

Your face, that squinting canvas,
Is nothing in this place
Where I feel I should know you,
Where the wanting to know you
Is the only absolute.

I think about God in this moment
And I feel like I can write poetry again.

But I’m afraid that this is the last one
I will write about you.

~

Author: Chelsea Griffin
Image: Natalia Drepina/Deviantart
Editor: Lieselle Davidson