There is an acid edge to every waking moment.
The loss. The wound of it wider open,
rejuvenated with the salt of tears.
I am set back, crippled and struggling to believe
that either words or memories will ever be enough.
That I will never heal. Never know peace.
Even the truth of our love stings as I sift
among the softness of its many fallen petals
– oh, and they of a white so pale it seems a richness,
and there the hue of pink on the undersides too –
raising the scent of your perfume from that day, or this
while I pull prickles from my flesh, relishing the pain,
leaving others where they are fast stuck,
to stand testament, like poems or songs or coins.
I live in fear of being woken (from every waking moment)
to discover what lies beyond the end of our hybrid dream,
and so I am lost; all I desire is to be found again.