Next Year … Some Year (this year)

Millay was right when she said they all have lied.

There hasn’t been any day, in any week, in any month – not a single day since then. I would take just one – a series of 24 successive hours where you don’t invade my heart thoughts.

A solid sleep, a quiet morning, an inconsequential afternoon. An evening where you cannot be tasted in the vodka and sadness that burns in my throat … and a night where you do not come to me, unbidden, when I first close my eyes.

I would take just one of these days from back, before.

There is absence and then there is this. The silent, suspended ever-presence. The way the saxophone mourns on my favourite song. The hundred little ways you won’t go away. They said there would come an easier time, the scientists and the lovers too. But it doesn’t heal a thing, you know.

I suspect it merely drives it deeper.

Rock Bublitz at body, remember

What I was writing five years ago. FIVE YEARS! Always interesting to sit down with my ghosts …

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