poetry, Talking with Broken Objects

The House of Dust and Cobwebs

How I have felt it,
that strange bird called parting.
Its wings stirring up the dust
as I pack the things I choose to keep.
The past clouds up the air,
as wings rip through the cobwebs of perplexity,
covering me in dust and cobwebs.

In this rotting house
our love sprouted from the earth,
pressed between the cracks of the hard wood floor;
not some craving nor want, but attended to.

I think about these things as I wash the dust off
in a friend’s house, because of a friend’s love;
but it is love all the same.
For so long,
I have not understood this love called friendship.
It rose up as the sun
radiant and intense.
Its brilliance tried to burn away the cold of the night,
but it couldn’t.
A space heater in snow filled woods.

I thank the friend, stay and talk awhile.
I must leave
to sleep on floor and couch
in search of another lover best-friend.

 

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