Hindsight
I.
How young we were and how young we became with one another as
the bickering of our breaths and the melding of our minds and
the entanglement of what else was left until we couldn’t control that which
awoke new and strange- blossomed- foreigners forged into one another instead of against and now-
now that’s all done.
Now the clocks are restarting again.
Now the world is set on course.
Now you are far and frightful and frigid.
Now our cornerstone becomes rigid cracking
the spine of the boy I loved as he lies wrapped in a
Living Nightmare.
II.
How quietly I watched you break yourself down like an equation.
How I whispered into the softness of your hair.
How I wanted and wanted and wanted even after you weren’t there.
How I observed the crime scene of our desires unfold:
Here is the chalk outline of my palms on your face.
Here is the chalk outline of your nails dug into my waist.
Here is the chalk outline of the race we thought we won so unaware the gyre of our dreams had snapped with fanged teeth already catching up on us
(and I listen for the sound of your footsteps fading in the talc-white
Dust, dust, dust…)
III.
Look at me once and you’d see a grimace.
Look at me twice, mein schatz, and you’d see the worry behind my eyes but I’m not the kind of thing someone looks at twice, am I?
(especially with the world ending)
It’s almost a miracle you even noticed me at all and
it’s such a terrible irony to befall because
you were so loud I had forgotten what I enjoyed about my silence,
you were so loud I had forgotten clashing symbols set my teeth on edge,
you were so loud I had forgotten sound wasn’t supposed to be a thing set on fire and doused in technicolor until your voice only rang out in the hollow exitlude of passing thoughts.
IV.
Do you hear me in the slivers of your solitude?
(Because I have cenotes within me-)
Do you pick me up with your shattered coffee mug?
(-in which whatever dives down to replace who was once there-)
Do you pull me close in a different bedroom’s dark husk?
(-might only ever skim the surface as seafoam-)
Do you taste the remnants of light on your tongue, a remainder of carried numbers and torches and the brusque natures of kisses bruised as fallen stardust?
(-but can never fill in the depths of what ‘was-is-will be.’)
Do you know you really are my sweetest blunderbuss?
V.
I want the world to end again.
I miss my best friend.
I divide to zero and back down when-
The axel of bedlam turned under your hand and
(darling, you must forgive me-)
for a moment, I forgot I was anything but your truest heart.
-Poems Hermann Gottlieb wrote after the war ended (to a man who was no longer there.)