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Description
Loving you is nothing compared to a dying candle. - Naeem Pasha

No, only if you stay. I take words
as gift now only from those who look
like orbiting. I have grown stone
in my chest, flowerpots, azaleas,
and if you look like having too much
gravity, I'll take no syllables then either.

*

Loving you is nothing. I could do it
in my sleep, and have, then wake to
another man, and still remember you were
better in my chest. Leaving you is easy -
I follow the mothers who leave
for the sake of themselves, to keep their sides
from splitting with love's fair children.
But coming back - oh for the coming back -
for the paths gouged in concrete, for the grass
grown greener than the youngest eyes, for the wide
before us, the straight, the narrow, for
the middle way - for all the signposts
signaling return, I cannot say I will go back
and I cannot open the door to you
but that is me on the front porch
every night, starbright, and it is best not to lie.

*

A man came with flowers. I tried to put them
next to you in my chest, but my flowerpot
runneth over, everything is wet. Growing you
is nothing, but how you bloom sometimes
from season to season - must have been that mountain
air, must have been your nova silence -
and how my garden grows.

Description
Loving you is nothing compared to a dying candle. - Naeem Pasha

No, only if you stay. I take words
as gift now only from those who look
like orbiting. I have grown stone
in my chest, flowerpots, azaleas,
and if you look like having too much
gravity, I'll take no syllables then either.

*

Loving you is nothing. I could do it
in my sleep, and have, then wake to
another man, and still remember you were
better in my chest. Leaving you is easy -
I follow the mothers who leave
for the sake of themselves, to keep their sides
from splitting with love's fair children.
But coming back - oh for the coming back -
for the paths gouged in concrete, for the grass
grown greener than the youngest eyes, for the wide
before us, the straight, the narrow, for
the middle way - for all the signposts
signaling return, I cannot say I will go back
and I cannot open the door to you
but that is me on the front porch
every night, starbright, and it is best not to lie.

*

A man came with flowers. I tried to put them
next to you in my chest, but my flowerpot
runneth over, everything is wet. Growing you
is nothing, but how you bloom sometimes
from season to season - must have been that mountain
air, must have been your nova silence -
and how my garden grows.