blackeyesunrise

Not here, though
The thought of it will come again

But hear ye,
The next life is waiting, it awaits
With empty bags on an undocked ship
And a fistful of longing,

Asks:

After how many voyages
Will the foreigner
Go without luggage
Before help could come,

In how many places
Has my friend
Wandered aimlessly
Before life could find him.

Says:

Like you, I did not exist either
Not here, though
The want of it might return.

I measure my scotch in terms of those
meaningless songs, late night when the eyes get up
from floorboards

and I am alone,
there is nothing left
but the bottle,
there is nothing left
in the bottle,

but still you came, your throat rusty
with music and smoke,
telling me that
we are rabid under the mud,
filthy and tired of existing

sick of everything
yet in that dark, we found light:
we tasted wanting tongues against the spirits
we found light

and it tasted bitter
from the luminosity that surrounds you

because I wanted that bright
as my own;
because I wanted that
as my own;

so it goes,
when you go
I tell my friends, grief
will always drink with you
but it is
a jealous companion

Standing on the edge of this fence,
I wonder if you are drunk or dead,
Or maybe you remember the time
When we were eight and the moving
Van still too far for grief,

You brought your boomerang, orange
And striped, and we cried when it
Flew imperfect, past railing to sky,
To clump of hedge there below.

But we were eight, I went away
Not knowing how far I’d go or
Having forgotten your name,
Too long absent to be missed and
Too few memories to reminisce

Except this: the one where things
Don’t come back having gone
And changed, while all the while
The intent remained.