There’s a verdigris, a tarnish, a
patina of disaster. There’s a flaky
smooth corrosion on the
surface of my skin.
And you left it here, my
darling, but I am no Princess Mary. I’ll
explain it to you, Grisha, in
terms you will understand.
It’s like sex inside a circuit
board, like Mongols on the
Dnieper. It’s imaginary
numbers tattooed on Schrodinger’s cat.
And my callow western
skull is made of sugar cubes
and photos warped by water,
I will not let go because this time I can’t.
You are gone and now I know it;
you—the heaviest of metals. I’m
a ransom note in amber, you’re
a forest of birch trees.
So I’ll keep on building cities
out of swampland and tinfoil; I’ll be
here for you when cliff-side duels break
mirrors in your mind.
DM du Jour 