Saturday, March 20, 2010

Without You

The following is the poem, Without You, composed while strolling the QuingShui's Lama Temple on the western coast of Taiwan near the Port of Taichung.
Without you
I am murky rice water in the stone bowl
Cold hands sinking deep to squeeze the grains free.
Wrists. Arms. Plunging to the bottom where there is no escape.
Another word for without you is drained and boiled clean.
Without you
I am footsteps following violin music
In pavilion halls made of marble and stone
The echo of branches scraping window panes
And the memory of spring night's gentle kiss and wafting honeycomb.
Another word for without you is clear loss of senses.
Without you
I am camera and sketch book thrown in a rucksack
Over the shoulder, smooth key turning in the lock
Whiskers scratched on chin and pants rolled up for long
Bicycle rides through abandoned fields.
Another word for without you is afraid the sun on my cheeks won’t be enough.
Without you
I am skinny dipping legs sneaking past the guard
At the apartment pool, diving down into the mysterious lights
Like fireflies in mason jars
Feeling I’ll always meet someone here by chance
And be too shy to act.
Another word for without you is afraid to be fearless.
Without you
I am spineless books in a discarded lost and found
Matchbox car without wheels, a hoodless sweatshirt with torn sleeve
A necklace ripped in a fit of ecstasy, a neglected left foot of a blown out flip flop.
The things that can be thought but never said.
Another word for without you is what survives after the soul
Has been ripped to shreds.

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