I'll have to stop thinking of you; it is too much like kissing a dying rose
or speaking into a void hearing only my own echos.

It is too teen-aged sad to obsess like this; memorizing your phone number backwards, counting the steps to your house, taping your photo inside my bra, making up excuses to be where you are, or might be, lingering long after it is clear you're not here, not coming.

I'll have to snip these little traces of you from my mind; remove your after-shave from the medicine cabinet, cease discretly inquiring of you
from mutual friends whilst I pretend, no real interest. 
But they are not fooled; they see this obsession's grip and I'm sure silently lament my entanglement in its delicate cords.

And I, on my part,  while acknowledging it is odd and maybe unhealthy
for me to behave like this, my Hearts' Heart knows what I really feel--
which is its better to have these memories than to inhabit some memoryless void.

No, better to wrap you lovingly among my Gentle Regrets than sleep with a dying rose slowly bleeding from its pin-prick thorns.

I remember fireflies in the sky obscuring stars. They all resided in your eyes; you not seeing them because they came alive only when shining for me gleaming inside my kisses.

You don’t know of them-they’re secret-until I lit them with  touch torches, seething suckings from velvet lips; mine.

You absorbed that whichwas  my Heart’s  Redemption and I gave
back; I give back because your pleasure was my secret salvation; but you
don’t seem to know; your claim was only upon the vessel which received
and gaves thrills at my thrill that which was our secret being;

in relationship to that stultifying lightening which sates which satisfies,
which ignites knitted by loves bonds.
You are ecstatic; happy with being needed and I too fitted into your seams
catapulting our secret needs beyond needs and consumations  blending
Seed and Need, Pressings and Clingings: understandings beyond kilt and kin; species melding man and woman.
 

That yesterday is gone in dim light. Tomorrow is too far:
"And  I am exiled"
she said
"into this Now which Burns of Both my Sweets and Sours, my Gauzy Memories, my Faded Sorrows and those Lilting Joys playing in Meadows Past.  I am  now exiled within my Now.

Who knows the cure, the incantation which can wed Yesterday, Now, and Tomorrow?

But more: who can make my coming and going Immortal?
For this is what we all seek is it not? Some wanting to live forever never die in Jesus; some want books and things to Live Down the Ages; some will take Infamy hoping Evil has Immortal Longevity.

Others give name to it calling it Death; the name we give to our fear of change; but all seek Mattering wanting to in some way mark our passing
  here our song we and others sing in Refrain and Memory.

I am insighted only in that the human mind and writings to me are where the soul is allowed to sing Down the Generations where soley,
to me, True Immortality lives; curled among written pages and in the hearts of readers.