It’s 1 am,
and I
am reading a book
by a Russian therapist
who has this mistaken idea
that his life
has meant anything
but for the words
he once believed.
I am
listening
to Mission UK,
because the corny symphony
of She Conjures Me Wings
is perfect
to be sad with,
is perfect
to remember.
It’s been
seventeen years
and fifteen minutes,
since you walked out
on the institution
of our birth
and I
grieve
in a way you’ll not know,
for the sibling
I’d not know,
for the brother
who has no comparison.
My days
once worshipped
the sacrificial beauty
of Love,
and my
desires
once laid
in a scheduled array
of lovers
and enemies
because she was right,
there is no other,
except
for the one
I know to be
--like the blisters of Saint Theresa,
the armchair of Socrates,
the familiar scent
of an afternoon at midnight--
gone.
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