Like snapshots of old, I am in
clouds of white, yet I cannot see
past the black and crimson.
There is little gray.
They envelope me as you once did; as
your love would cover me, not unlike a
child with its favorite blanket.
“But I am no longer a child,” I admonish myself
as our memories abound.
Am I still sound?
Your timorous voice resounds, spilling me around, my life unraveled.
I’m reminded-often– of how you gutted me, whole.
Was it systematic, or did its magic possess you over time?
“We were granted enough of it.”
Am I still not around? For I cannot be found.
These clouds enhance me, filling me with their rage and grief; longing
and regret, fluctuating fore and aft. They consume this
existence that I’d like to call life.
Black, white, gray hovers– what can I discover?
You’re like my soul, yours and ours entwined; my one desire.
You left me in this cruel world, on this cold tile, bleeding.
You won’t return.
A light knock breaks the monotony.
It’s the day nurse, come to take
Ms. Jackie says they’re fine.
“But I’m not fine.” The jagged re-realization throws
this consciousness back, further and further. An
invisible blur descending these empty, pristine walkways, resting
at a sign identifying the place
I’ve called home
for eight long years: Pilgrim Psychiatric Center.
Our memories stay there..