Laying alone in this bed
the alter where I once offered up my body as sacrament
I gaze at the ceiling
looking for shapes in the paint
the way we once did from a balcony in Florida.
But there are no shapes here
just shadows that shift with light and time
as we did.
My hand on my abdomen,
an empty shell
fingertips searching the hollow
for PROOF I was ever whole.
My soul
seems to have escaped the borders of this body.
I haven't felt PRESENT in it since they took my womb.
It isn't any wonder I wasn't able to BIRTH us a love that lasted,
I lost my magic.
Terminated;
though we both aborted US at the same time, truth is
the death was more like a miscarriage
something that died inside our bodies
but was still wanted
so we carried it
until we could no longer bare it
toxic, turning septic inside us.
As ceiling shapes shift this magic trick seems a strange sorcery.
YOU have always been exactly who you SAY you are, yet I couldn't SEE it.
Me? I can no longer recognize myself, or know what to believe in.
Who have I even
become?
Can it be undone? And will I ever return to what I once was?
No.
The tree cannot turn back into a seed.
I am SO deeply rooted in unhappiness here.
. . .
The pain wasn't unbearable at first.
It was just a buzzing din, increasing unnoticeably
until I could no longer hear the sound of MYSELF over the dissonance,
now deafening.
Our last conversation; I still hear us scream ...
and then silence. CLICK.
There's no longer music here.
I just want to dance again.
Whereas once, we had our own rhythm.
Your hands told my hips which way to sway.
I really loved that you were always willing to dance with me,
in a club, the bough of a ship, the living room.
We really knew our way around a tune, didn't we?
I've decided I will CHOOSE to remember us that way;
dancing in the space
where light changes shape
and the shadow of US sachets across the ceiling.
A miscarried dream, that never saw morning.