I spoke, stopped, you snored—
listened to your breath’s corrugated rhythm—
resumed in silence. . .
I would have poured on you an avalanche of wreckage:

two magazines; lyrics; curled pictures of a boy
with whom I used to sing; tickets to a concert that I missed;
a broken toy; beads, scattered from a broken string
once wound around my wrist; a brand-new bracelet;
worn-out razors; incense sticks; your photograph;
a note I left that made you laugh; a wad of cash;
wrinkled maps; red candles with black wicks;
sheets which speak, stained with cyphered sentences
a coward can’t confess; the letters F-R-E-A-K;
and an old friend’s drawings of things I wrote and spoke—
I would have burned all with my words,
and filled you with the smoke. You’d have been buried
to the neck by the bonfire I have carried.

I heard you, smooth against the sheets, turn
so your breathing hushed. The quiet
brought the buzzing of fluorescents.
Now the only things to burn are piled on this page—
less a mess, less dangerous than if you had heard me speak.
The weight has shifted to my eyelids from my head.

I’ll kill the light, and crawl in bed.

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ChaoSpirals