I have tried to bury you In a mountain of typed pages. All of these pages, The nightly tappity tap of the keyboard As my mind goes backward to moments, Sentences, a touch Trapped always in the amber inside my skull. This mountain, it keeps growing And growing. Sometimes, like last night, I began to write about you, The lines forming in my mind As I lie in bed trying to sleep. I pushed them out of my head And tried to sleep and think about Other things But more words came. Finally, I drifted off To dream melancholy dreams of you. I woke up without those words But others keep replacing them. It hurts inside Like a physical pain To not write it out. I write a lot about boats And bays And being cast adrift on the ocean, No lighthouse, My rowboat oarless, my compass smashed. You told me once about how after we were dead You would drink coffee, sitting In your second story And look out upon the bay outside, Imagining me, what I was doing, Thinking, how I looked. After being with you, that is what I love most: You thinking about me. These words keep piling up But the mountain of pages Do nothing to bury you; You are not only underneath them But within them and atop them. I see you in nothing but your t-shirt And panties, braless, wearing your long socks And you are looking off impassively On top of this mountain of words. I feel you looking toward me But when I try to meet your gaze I see your eyes averted to nothing But triviality. Banality. A fake smile plastered on lips otherwise Magnificent. One day, perhaps, the mountain Will crumble. Perhaps. But now. But now The risk of an avalanche Upon the remnants of my soul Is the only immediate concern: My burnt and damaged soul. My heart is gone; It sits upon that table Where your hands grasp that cup of coffee Or glass of wine As you look out of your window And contemplate your Honey Bear. It beats still, but it no longer Belongs to me. My soul, it still lives a little bit, Treading water with the mountain a shadow looming larger and larger As the words blend and blur, sculpting higher and higher. Just waiting for the avalanche So I can be buried And stop trying. I’m so tired, you see. So tired Of treading water. My death will be largely Unreported.
About the Poet:
John Tustin’s poetry has appeared in many disparate literary journals since 2009. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.
Beautifully arranged but heartbreaking words. 💔
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