Something familiar before thought puts a name to it
Slithers up from an anonymous depth and strangles my throat
It’s disguised with charm but I know and can feel that it belongs in a Goya painting
The smell of a premature Spring day sticks out like a sore thumb amongst a slew of frigid February mornings
On my walls are reminders of past efforts, solitary attempts at capturing not only anyone’s attention, but my own
I sit in my room in silence with the notion that most of my efforts fell flat
The ground cries as it thaws Winter from its layers
My muscles, too, ache in a detox of memory
Us at my kitchen table
“Don’t forget” as if forgetting would be worse than this
And that is the masochism of this heartbreaking town, of love, and truly of me
Each step I take down this hallow block is letting go
There no longer resides a choice within me – only direction, only current
Yet, still, a needle tugs my throat, pulling a thread of resistance as another struggles to penetrate the tough old denim of my jeans as I hem them
The silhouette of your body is stained on the walls of my inner city like the shadows of Hiroshima
A symphony I learned long ago
You are it: memorized, still breathtaking, and not as familiar as I once named you to be by the passing of years and whiplash of seasons