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Lament's Greeting

I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t.
Cinderella sang, “A dream is a wish your heart makes when you’re fast asleep.” But I didn’t. I didn’t do any of it. I didn’t wish. I didn’t dream-- I don’t sleep. I’m an insomniac.
Cigarette footprint on the flesh of his left forearm’s surface. Only one, not a trail. Never going anywhere…
“That’s not me,” he said.
“I believe that.”

Why does it feel so surreal and serene when that cigarette footprint comes to me?
Holds me close. At night; at day. The same arms that can push me away–
—Away so far and vast in distance that the ocean’s very depths and widths would be envious.

“Something told me not to talk to you.”
Well you shouldn’t have.

The earth ate us up on that night. Right under the light. Full moon’s blessing. I drowned in sand for you, trusting that you’d rinse me as clean as my unclean self of being could be, once you were satisfied—You did. After all was said and confessed.
Oh, how we danced.  The moon kissed our bodies as you held me with yours.
As you held me with yours, I held you with mine.
The waters sang a lullaby.
I drowned in earth. I drowned in waters.
Stubborn son and virgin daughter.
I drowned in air that was filled with moon. I drowned in what I found in you.
I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t ask for you.
I hate myself—but God, never you.
I’m sorry that you said hello. I’m sorry that, though it was slow—

I pushed you out when all I meant— was to love and love and love you.
This is my lament.




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