I Write

I write, I write of you, with words plucked from some unknown

complex of sentences — that rested you in peace, I write to you,

of you, to keep at bay, the

solitude that has confined me in its finality, residually indented —

historically accurate

I write, my love, that I not, confine you in a box of dovetailed memories,

to not forget ourselves as some indefinable nostalgic memory,

I write and I write — write — write — rewrite!, I’ve inked my animus, my pneuma

in the mixed metaphors of you, written in the braille of my tears,

coded in the language of my wrath — I rage as I erase the unwritten

I write, until that time, I matter not to time, I write, I write,

I write for you —

the parenthesis, my embrace that complements the

analogous point of apsides that orbit my axis — rewriting you in the tangle of torment —

you’ve left your stamp, somewhere between the anonymity of silence, and

the notary of my ill-fated pen — that time did not

allow you to address, and so I write my promise, in the lines antedating my

debt to you,

I write, till I am written amongst things remembered, that I may breathe

again in the breath of the words you left unfinished, the laws of human nature —

that even she cannot rewrite in words regurgitated by the pyloric stenosis of her womb

I write, I don’t know what else to do,

I write and then I read you.

Copyright ©. R Tsambounieri Talarantas. May 29, 2020. All Rights Reserved.