How’ve you been, someone asks,
how do I talk about healing, want
to say it’s been Hell,
how I’ve had to learn to
house fury and cradle bruises,
all the hundred conscious
steps back to a self, stringing up
lights and hoping the glow
warms me down to the bone,
but I opt for can’t complain and
a sip of my beer.
Back then, the world stopped and
we shattered, empty apartments, promised
never to take a thing for granted, and
oh, the honeymoon year, the
wild blur of color, saying yes and
figuring the rest out later,
reckless abandon and endless
nights, no wonder even the
cruelties felt like love.
You were the drugs in
your pocket, a few nights of
wonder in exchange for
so many bruising tomorrows,
the loneliest boy who taught me
some company is lonelier than being
alone.
What came next was a rerun, Sophomore
slump, boring story, stupid prizes,
nothing better to say, except
I found myself in the fallout, the
surprise gift of disaster – you take
the shit that matters and you run.
Can’t complain, but some wounds
always will, joints that swell in the
face of changing weather, whiplash
October, and I’m more or less
the same as always, tender and
wanting, defiant and gentle,
breaking into a run and
holding onto blue yesterdays.
michael king 