I'm leaving in a week, big shot; tough guy; baby, con-man.
So.
Give me the good stuff, only, if you would.
I won't remember the rest,
it would eclipse your boy face
mother-cupped, in my hands;
your elfin ears that tasted words spoken in tounges, fingers in/out your lusty mouth,
tracing your childlike smile
All the good composite being we wove in love dances
will gasp for air
from the muck of lies you now tell me,
that mean,
"I hate you, don't go!" and "I love you! Leave me alone!"
Look, I didn't write your soap opera, and no one is paying me to do the stand-in mother ; so I'm not going to keep the bit part, for I can do better
than playing star pasted to your cigarette sky
smoggy kisses were detrimental to health
and forget about wealth.
You squander our love-weaving on wanting even more than the very fabric we created
and so arrived at my door, open handed and starving. withdrawing my emotional account
because you remained spiritually in red.
I'm getting it back up now, into the black,
out of your sight, up in to white ,
I'll be
but another bird in flight
from your clutching and blaming.
Pacifically, the salt air will purge your nonsense from my half-dreams and you
will either face that you love me
or die denying and crying injustice,
believing your pain was my truth,
while mine only connived,
conjuring up criticisms, I neither meant, nor said.
You dreamt me up: bad witch, mean mother, false lover;
you squandered the tremendous summer
storm of love we knew, that had us both
too busy and too empty to remain sane
together.
But, honey, the real stuff was homey; warm, and divine.
The rest of that which we knew as "us", that which kept us awake or misery bound, I must somehow release from my spine; and hope and pray and believe in the compassionate healing of Time....