You taught me
how to build.
You constructed a force field
of glittery glass
in which
you slouched and sank
and time and space and money
kept me further.
They had not counted on the wires
stretched enough
to bring us
ear to ear:
Wires you tied
long enough to hang us both.
I had not counted on loving
whom I could never touch.
Had not imagined that wire — wire
alone — would tie us
ear to ear, cheek to cheek,
heart to mind
(
cyborgs passing in the night).
Wires you tied long enough to hang us both.
Had not imagined you could
Break me
Nor pick me up with glue
You taught me how to build.
I lay in a coma for six weeks
All too conscious of the din around
me, counting my heartbeats
like pennies
And I learned that
that night,
words (my words) were
Not enough
and you drowned yourself in
pills.
Poems the prayers
the celluloid and
freight trains
our philosophic banter
could not break
the field
of glittering glass.
Wires you tied,
long enough to hang us both.