I habere amisit

I habere amisit

I write about a fire, strong, 

burning wild in my midst, 

yet soft like cotton molded into thick clothing. 

The sun whose eyes I cannot keep off me lest I be burned by these warm feelings, 

I always wanted to tell you, 

that someday I'd stare bluntly into your entrancing eyes, 

face the barrel of your gun loaded, 

a stranger and  me filled with regret, 

drowning in a pool of memories, 

perhaps the art I'd envisioned in you. 

You weren't just my weakness, 

you were a drug, me a user, 

your smile the illusion, 

the thoughts of you and I like a breath of fresh air,

I felt you but it wasn't something I could hold. 

I'd think of your lips, 

on my odd days, 

your smile the suns rays to burn, 

turn to ash those words you'd whispered, 

would you pray to the letters for their ingredients turned to flesh, 

would you hold your breath, 

count each skip in your heartbeats pounding and make mention of everything we said. 

You were a poem, 

I papyrus plucks found that would have aged with you. 

I know the world isn't pure, 

but with you it resembled something close.

I'd walk by the trees and in their rustling hear your name gently roll down each leaf,

I know my calls to you must have felt like a ruined day, 

I know our messages read out aloud must have felt like a traumatic rerun, 

I know I tried, 

I know I wasn't good enough, 

I know I wasn't the man in the letters turned to flesh, 

I know this, I know that, 

I know, I know, I know, 

I know I miss you. 

Your fists clenched, I'm sorry, 

I know how much this must hurt you, 

how it feels like rabid dogs biting at your new chapter, 

a post traumatic stress to several lies experienced in your past when your heart was wide open, 

an art to be exact, something beautiful, 

and it still is. 

Your words felt like a relief, 

like a key, unlocked the chains to an enslaved heart, 

you weren't a page you were a chapter inscribed in a library lost, 

not the rose in my hand but a garden that shadowed even those of Solomon, 

you weren't just a poem, you were my life story, 

I tattooed 'in memorium' on me reminiscing on dead words lost, 

I listened, I failed, 

and now I write lonely, and sad, 

living deep in a vague comfort among her forgotten memories.

25/03/21

'I habere amisit' is Latin for 'I have lost'

"Ars longa, vita brevis."