He’d tell me of a feeling he’d get from time to time.
When-wariness would drowsily lower her shield, drunk on lethargy,
when things would grab hold a little too tightly
and the beats would become synonymous with scarcity of breath.
He’d describe it as a sorrow
and a guilt
and a regret.
and an anxiety
and the deepest passion.
It’s all of these things, he’d say, and it leaves me goddamn empty.
He’s opening the door,
It’s her voice, quite higher than his,
whispering about how big the cockroaches have been getting lately.
He holds the door,
But he pushes her away.
She’s waiting down below, swimming with spirits again.
He closes the door,
Vein attempts to keep the howling out
It doesn’t open until he hears her limping back to the forest.
Why do we focus our attention
on the details we don’t miss.
Abandon them in comprehension –
let us never reminisce.
Let these shadows through your door,
as your spirits take effect.
For while they’re sleeping on the floor –
they’ll be easy to dissect.
They’ll ask to stay a while longer
and you’ll oblige, for they’re no threat.
With your new-found knowledge, you are stronger –
you will remember, but not regret.