March Moves Into

 

april, moves into june,
moves into july, moves
into august, moves into
september. moves beyond
you and into him and out
of him and into them and
out of them and into him
and he is still here while
the calendar moves on again
back into march and back
to you.

and all the days were as
seconds passing when i knew
you. it was only after you
were gone that the days started
dragging and staying, seeming
to last forever. now i hunker
down and wait them out and it
takes so long! i get so tired
of the length a day takes to
pass.

spring means death now. death
of hope. death of dreams. death
of faith and trust. the blossoms
come forth and i see them with
too-dead eyes, not believing the
magic anymore. it is only when
the days grow sharp and cold that
i start to feel i can breathe
again. it's only then when your
memory leaves me some tiny peace.

two years. it took you, what? two
weeks, if that, to get "over" me.
more like days, really. suddenly
you were cold and distant and i
fought the panic, fought the coming
death of desire. no match for the
disinterest in your smile, i tried
gamely to pretend it was going to
all be ok.

and of all the reasons i hate you
now, there are only 2 or 3 that
are really important:

for stealing the music from me.
for not being who you thought you were.
and for making this man, the man who holds
me when i cry your name in the middle of
dark March nights, for making him not
seem good enough, for not measuring up
to the you who never was.

denise

 

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