You were Fate’s catalyst and now the moon roars
Out your name. The ground has shifted;
The leaves have already fallen.
Nothing here can move quickly.
Constant rain. Perpetual drizzle.
This is the climax of brooding sky:
The world in an arthritic cast.
I sink deeper into my chair
And into nowhere, remembering
Our epoch opening like an atrium.
I sit alone. I separate
The night’s black veil to watch
A rabble of stars that slowly appear,
Submerged and drunk and melancholy
Tumbling out of the dark.
I think of you as though in seance
And our last night rises up from the air.
I have never heard a more
Honest and open cry
Than the rising howl you made that night:
Our last night, when I held your hand in the rain
And you held not just mine back,
But everything together –
And I never even realised,
All that time that I held you,
That you were a moment
That I let fall into nothingness.
You were the planet’s core, you were magma-glue,
And that’s why the happiness stuck to us.
If it was raining then the sky did not bother your tears.
That winter looked too good on you.
It adored you, like a mother –
Birth certificate confusion.
The summer was almost obvious.
Winter was better. Lurking.
You could camouflage in the cold.
But it was also something more profound:
Months followed you, mirroring.
The skies seemed to shiver.
A world hiding in hibernation
While I watched your cheeks blister;
Dimpled red apples, licked by frost.
The tarmac crunched like rubble underfoot
As you spun away, plucking out the air
With the premonition of blossom
Concealed somewhere deep in your smile.
You knew the eventuality of change
And I opened each day like a gift.
God. You were gut-punch beautiful.
In the devotion of those short, dark days
Nothing could stop you.
But like the snow, tumbling
Down altitude’s umbilical cord,
It all soon would be fallen.
You sleep between the sighs and the sunrise:
Scratch marks running down your back like train tracks,
Chasing the curvature of your pale spine,
The memories of the moans in the black.
You wake each day with fresh finger traces,
Repeatedly healed in the night until new.
Different; distant. Slowly, you are time-changed –
A concertina of hands holding you.
But not mine. Now I just stitch the remnants
Of what is left in the dark of my dreams,
Wearing your aftershocks as a pendent,
Oscillating wildly between extremes.
The doctors would call my love a crisis.
My lips condense heartbreak into silence.