Tuesday, 07 July 2009

• always for another

   

  It's easy for me

  to sit here and smirk,

  head cocked to one side

  with a pirate-gypsy grin.

  I spread my hands wide,

  but I'm not asking for forgiveness--

  no, there's nothing less

  than goodbye in this, and that,

  but you misread everything

  I've left for you, and I know,

  the purpose might come to late--

  but, well, that's not my fault, baby.

   

  These waters

  of obscure skies and forgotten depths,

  I know them.  It's easy to grin

  and laugh at the danger,

  because I've lived it,

  and lived it,

  and lived it--

  but not with you.  There's another,

  a truer kind of sinner,

  with a ring and a realization

  of some kind of worthiness,

  the kind I deign to deem,

  and in case you missed the clarity,

  yours wasn't forgotten in the mail.

   

  Consider this more

  than a knee-jerk reaction--

  I've carefully weighed each

  copper coin (in order to replace the gold):

  you are not my battle, love,

  nor are you my sometimes-war.

  No, no, no,

  you are your own drowning victim,

  and I am a siren who sings songs

  always for another.

   

  Do I need to redefine it for you?

  Do I need to elaborate the circumstance?

  I could, swiftly, undress

  each and every reason--

  but, really, I prefer to keep away

  from prying eyes and too-distant secrets--

  you think you know,

  but really, you have no idea,

  and I don't mean that to be cruel,

  or maybe I do--

  you'll never really know,

  because you can't gaze beyond

  your own trembling delusions

  (of grandeur and desire).

   

  So keep it, every memory

  I ever gave you (unknowingly), incomplete--

  I'm done and through,

  and over--but never, never

  under you.

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