Untitled (I come for you, I)

Untitled (I come for you, I)

A great impression lay
underneath my eyes
and there it lay
underneath my skin
below the three levels of bone,
marrow & spirit. In
others the marrow turns
to dust or rust with
cancer or worse. My spirit
is sick or I cannot for the
life of me understand my own
pain. This is our time but
mine is blocked and remains
so by the long shift down
from a place of great promise
to a resting place.
That place. This place here. Complete
with fear. Yes, this place here.
And when I think of you I
think of warmth and time and
distance. When I think of you
I think of letting go. Of
not returning. Of stress. Of
course. I think of everything
that a place is, then some,
then nothing at all but desire,
satiation, desire, fire, then
nothing at all. Then I think
of love. From out here love is
the dark sea. From out here in
that same quiet, from that same
impression, a great impression,
love is acceptance my love. My
quiet love. My only love.

~Rose
April 21, 2010
for Lord Byron.