I grow tired - I'm thinking no longer.

 

I grow tired - I'm thinking no longer.

 

I don’t think about you now –

but this, you’d maybe guess,

is only an affectation, an affliction,

a contradiction,

running stubborn to my beliefs –

so, think me a thief.

 

In here, you’re stripped bare,

naked as I intended –

 

I took away the plinth,

kenneled all those pet names

and myths I imbued you with,

all our ‘love live forever’ stuff

and nonsense,

all fondant fancies -

aerosols of synthesized cream whip

that soaked stale cake

to make hard crumbs of comfort

fit for your lips.

 

The excuses I made and uses

I put your memory to

befit your passing from this state

to another – the conceits

and sophistry that granted you pardon,

have slowly hardened -

become a buried marble mosaic

under the cinder and ashes

of some inner Herculaneum bathroom

where two burnt statues recline.

 

But, all this lack of thought

has made me tired,

and perhaps you, too –

I no longer want to bring fire,

which is, perhaps, the fate of all

thieves who strike matches – small

sparks leave match wood residues,

charcoal stains on fingertip whorls.