Breaking Rope

I recollect those
not-to-reach places, that
staple my memorial like
not-to-reach traces of another me.
That lapse in humanity and,
somehow, deviated from the grace
of gods, but they ricochet in your appearance,
A face I will never see again, except
in photos shared or liked
by our contemporary social media blight.
It wasn’t even that you were apart
of anything, but those years when I
was anything but me,
and oh gods! I wish you could see
the tangible man that slashed himself in shreds
to now be the doyen of all your
clandestine breath.
Do you think of me
between your married, fleeting
dreams? Am I still a part of all the worlds
you could have seen, and could have been,
again and again?
I am always the ghost of what you saw,
the fallen remorse and nevermore
the longing on your lips.
And though I’d give it all to hear you
say I am still embedded in your heart,
I know to do so would be the start of downfall.
Another broken promise, because
if I were to hear your voice, the angel
passing above the motionless cowl
that hides more of me than
the world will ever get to see,
it would mean that I am no longer he
who fought to be the man
you miss, embraced in your dreams,
but the one man who let you go
and threw away the lithe promises
long ago.
So even if you called my name,
all I can do is remain
in this effervescent solitude
to prove that I am who
you unrequitedly call to.
And I wait, wait, wait
for your single breath.


  Poem © Phen Weston 2016

Image © fuzyblucaterpilr 2007

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