Late Summer; Early Autumn

I summon the trills of evening air;
Absorb every magenta hue
Of late summer.

I am a book that keeps re-binding;
Constantly stitching
New details about
             Bold re-routes,
And violent,
Screen-splitting hope.

It is now three autumns
And six poetry compilations
That separate me from the season
For which my cells
Row upstream-
In tension.
In dreams.

I wish I had carved out my voice;
Corked it in a sea-bound bottle,
Before you came back from Spain
And my projections eclipsed everything.

I have never loved the substance of someone
The way I loved the violent wake of you: 

Obstinate in the undertow,

Electric in spirit,

Unwavering in truth.

Comrade. 

I needle. I scratch. I spin. I repeat.  

I incline my ear to the moment I lost you.

I stitch silk patches over my punctured lungs. 

August is gold in my ribcage. 

I inhale to the flickering hope 

Of what changing your mind might sound like. 

I grieve tall houses; 

Paved neighborhoods; 

And how we have turned to dust

Beneath the light of
Too many full moons;

How we have convoluted our
Correspondences
And re-written all of our truths.

I grieve.
And I forgive you.

Emalyon,
I do.