tincture of time
still thinking back to those lonely nights
lying in bed by myself, staring at the shadows
listening to the still silence
sick to my stomach with liquor and dread
this dull, drear exercise
like picking at scabs, probing open wounds
still oozing with ichor and blood
but against all odds, I still have faith that these wounds will heal
some are long-standing, some are fresh
be patient and give it time, I tell myself
no other balm will ease this discomfort
nothing else will suffice
and I wait for that time when I can touch the space where the wounds once were
and I will feel nothing except the wholeness of knit flesh
the echoes of betrayal (though no vows were spoken),
of failure (though no trials were assayed)
still wake me at night
I remember knowing with aching desire that this is what I want
and I remember knowing with cold certainty that wanting is not enough
and I remember preparing myself for the bleak truths that must follow
what is done cannot be undone
we build the future with the past that we’ve already wrought
though I’d been here before, time and again, trod these broken paths
these shattered streets
nothing new under the sun
except for new cuts and scrapes and bruises
dawn soon comes, though it brings no surcease to these minor sorrows
(for there are far worse things than being alone)
somehow the course of the river of time turned differently this time
though I try not to be a superstitious man
endeavoring to approach the universe with
cold logic and hard reason
but sometimes it seems that miracles occur
only when all hope is lost
I listen to you breathing softly as you lie asleep beside me
and feel your warmth
and I wonder and marvel at how you could love someone as wounded as I
and maybe I just shouldn’t question it
and just accept things as they come
one day, one hour, one minute, one second at a time
to live in the present
knowing in the very moment
that you love me and I love you