Vukić Part XIII
Once the poison breaks from his veins,
A turning ghost wastes its permanence on sucking youth from a raging heart.
First, we think of life: roundabout, pursuing a selfish sea,
Against these muddy hands, dripping distance and silence,
Clawing at sediment and touch, clawing at sediment and want,
Clawing at the world for fucking us up and telling us only half-truths.
I miss shape-shifting, drunken on his bed,
Crooked fingers tracing the keyboard,
The humming night, stargazing into brown eyes,
And destructive rooms and wine-drenched sheets,
Foreign luck turned into a perfect spot for growth,
Upon my universe, I was only 22 and naïve,
Cut a hole in his favorite shirt and kept all my secrets there.
He asked me to be nothing, erase myself,
Dig holes, bury infinite things,
As he lit his cigarette, chemical moans subdue precious delivery.
Black soot uprooted all my sanity,
From his burning tongue, a harsh red melted my mood,
When he moved back home, 6000 years of solitude and miles,
Crashed and burned me out, his language became Croatian once more,
And my English slipped between the cracks of his broken skin.
He would never remember me as he once did,
For in silence we forget and I’m still searching for sentiment between his straight-laced ribs.