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I see the solitary lime in my fridge
Mocking me.
I recall the excitement with which I purchased it,
Holding it happily in my basket
Along with your favorite CD
Planning the vodka and tonic with lime
Just the way you like it, confident you'd be pleased I remembered.
I gave to you that night
What I give to no man,
Bathing your body in my warm scented tub
Hands and soap caressing your skin
Candles glowering,
Silence broken only by the slosh of the water on our bodies
And your passionate murmurings.
Your glass is still in the freezer
Waiting
As though you are about to return.
I have not had the heart to take it out and put it away.
There are other worthy men
Who clamor for my attention.
I cannot give that consecrated gift
Which belongs to only you,
Try though I might.
I feel a chafed compassion for them
Which I would despise being the recipient of.
I berate you for hurting me
Yet the ache
God, the ache.
It is so powerful
As compelling as breath.
I pick up the phone
One hundred times or more
Jones-ing for the fix of your voice
The heady elixir of you talking to me;
Sadly, I rest it back in its' cradle again,
The last fierce vestige of pride I have
Waving a feeble fist.
I put away all your photographs
Understanding the upper cut to my gut
Just looking at them will bring.
They whisper to me, beckoning
Hidden under the flannel nightgown
You surprised me
By liking so much.
(Recall the night I wore it last,
and you lay spooned with me
Resting your head in that hollow between my waist and hip,
Indolent arm slung over my thigh
Watching TV …?)
I write you long impassioned letters
That swing pendulum-like between
The white-hot sear of scorned rage and
The coldness of a lead-heavy broken heart
And then I discard them,
My tears staining the ink.
I smell your scent on my pillow
It fades a little more each day,
Soon it will disappear from these environs
Just as you have.
I found three of your hairs on the sheets
And as though they were shreds of gold
Newly mined,
I tenderly gathered them, put them in an envelope
And saved them.
I have not looked at them since.
It is enough to just know they are there
In the drawer
A piece of you
Waiting for me to either dowse for their owner
Or throw them out.
It depends on how much I remember any given day, you see,
As to which I might do.
When I am healed
I will dispose of them.
For now,
They are the placebo
That fools my senses into thinking
Some real part of you
Resides here still, with me.
Cognition proffers a bitch-slap
Telling me
You are human by the barest of definitions
Yet my memory persists in embracing,
Gilding
Your qualities more favorable
Petting them as one pets a mistreated cat
Hoping to transact affection and security
(Never knowing when it will snarl, hiss and sink its' teeth in your hand)
Unwilling to acknowledge the deliberate-ness
Of the misery you brought with you
Into my life.
I think to myself
The evidence before me
Surely must be erroneous
He couldn't do these heartless things
Not him,
With those liquid eyes
And silky-soft voice
Quiet demeanor
Knowing hands
Custom-made body
Arms around me all night long
No, he is not capable of such crimes.
He is too tender for that !
So, then
The question becomes
Am I to blame for
This Gethsemane
I suffer
Hourly ?
Is the patient responsible for
His ravaging illness
Or the native genetic infirmity which
Left him prey to it
In the first place ??
When does the agony stop?
Please
Give me the date, the day, the time
So that I may fortify myself
Somehow
Til then.
I don't think I will buy limes anymore.
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