There are these oftentimes I cannot reach you.
A heavy fog over your laden heart,
curtains pulled over to evade the sun.
An oceanic trench of disbelief in all
the vehement hope I try to conjure.
There are these broken refrains
that sing flat and hollow.
I can never get the notes right anymore-
my voice always cracks on the crescendo.
And in the subsequent silence
I curse my tongue for its stumble,
the wreck of sound that cannot rebuild.
Sometimes I think it’s me that failed, dear one.
An arsenic-lipped lover with no antidote to offer,
a slaughterhouse mess of misguided intent.
I am told that it is neither of us,
that convalescence is a fortress
we cannot scale alone.
Please forgive, then,
the battering ram that tries
to shatter your iron door,
the stubborn want to reach
that which is beyond us both.