we’ve stopped shouting, finally.
the wounds’ barely a memory of a sting, an afterimage of an amputation.
we can bear each other’s company.
and we know we’re solid enough
that we can look at each other and joke,
when people ask us,
“what broke you two up?”
and we reply, “our mental illnesses were simply not compatible …”
i’ve been thinking about cycles
a lot lately,
of loops
and rings
and circles
spheres
repetitions.
i’ve been thinking about this
because i look at the sun.
i’ve been looking at the sun almost every day
this summer.
i made it a point to go outside every day
because i wanted to
because it felt good
because it’s good for my depression
i went outside every day because i wanted to burn,
i wanted to smolder.
twice a day, actually.
baking, in the 3pm one hundred plus Laredo heat
after a workout.
baking, in the evening bathed in moonglow and starshine.
calmed by the swish of my Three Sisters
and the vapors of the Green Dragon
when he visits.
but the smoke
and the sighs
and the swish
and the sway
and the heat
beat
me
d
o
w
n
open my mind
up,
and lift me out
of this husk of a shell.
so open my mind sees
suns behind my closed eyes
afterimage moonglows
the curve of a fingernail moon.
i’m open.
and i think,
my father died.
heal.
my relationship was destroyed.
heal.
i damaged myself.
heal.
i damaged her.
heal.
to heal is to close something
that was once whole,
complete,
perfect,
after it’s perfection was penetrated and ripped
my father was ripped from my heart.
i ripped myself from my girl – well, ex-girlfriend’s heart.
and in this ripping, i was ripped – from myself.
all around the same exact time …
so, circles.
i sit under stars.
i lay under the sun.
and i breathe …
(love doesn’t save all)
and i breathe …
(my depression was me and i was my depression)
and i breathe …
(she was ill – how can i blame her for the things she did when she was ill?)
and i breathe …
(can i forgive her? yes)
and i breathe …
(can she forgive me? god i hope …)
and i breathe …
(can i forgive myself? i’m trying, trying …)
and i breathe … and with each vapor misted thought,
clarity appears.
and i breathe …
(what is my purpose here, alone?)
and i breathe …
(is this my role?)
and i breathe.
and i look at the sun.
and i look at the moon.
do i love myself … ? … yes.
am i good man …? … i try.
do i still love her …? … yes.
does she still love me? i think so
can it work?
no, we’ve said – in tears and laughter, in smiles and hugs.
no.
but circles close.
and my ex, my little bull, has her own alphabet soup of issues.
and she has bad says.
so i help her.
why? people ask,
their faces wrinkling bitter instantly,
acid etched grimaces
– the facial expressions of hurts past,
scars forever seared into their muscle memory.
why?
because love,
because time,
because Alabama Shakes,
because this is who i am.
and cycles turn.
suns set and rise.
gravity is constant.
time is relative.
and love can be both –
exactly, unknowingly …
and unknowingly
i write this poem
coming around full circle
back to that day,
almost exactly to that day –
one half-year of pure hell and
two and a half broken numb separated pieces –
on the three year
(goddamngofigurewearealwaysatthenexuswebofserendipidtycoincidencedivineconnection)
anniversary of our world ending.
so now here i stand.
and there she is.
we’ve stopped shouting, finally.
the wounds’ barely a memory of a sting, an afterimage of an amputation.
we can bear each other’s company.
and we know we’re solid enough
that we can look at each other and joke,
when people ask us,
“what broke you two up?”
and we reply, “our mental illnesses were simply not compatible …”
the sun sets.
the sun rises.
the wound heals.
cycles come full circle.
something else forms, molded
in the elliptical orbits of our lives.
the sun sets.
the sun rise.
and i know who i am now.
i know my role.
i am the one that pushes.
the helper,
the one offering suggestions,
the hand on the shoulder,
the encourager,
the nurturer.
i am all-encompassing.
i am love.
the sun sets.
the sun rises.
and
ouroboros,
eats his tail,
over and over.
again …
marcwritesmoorewords 