The Same Lovely Misery

Poetry is not my friend, It is only sad images of disappointment, A desolate history I don’t want to believe. But still, I have more tears For a lingering obsession That has already left A thousand handkerchiefs wet With prayers and regrets. Through scattered verse, I have called you perfect And invited the world To fall in love with you. I have tried to describe Your shimmering brown hair Caressing your Goddess-like shoulders, A mythical tall girl Towering in my dreams. I have swum in the tranquil pools Of your seductively sad eyes, And I have not lied About what they did to me, I was spellbound and mesmerized. You inspired a desperate search For poetic words; I wanted lines of thought and rhyme To offer sacrificial compliments At the altar of the beautiful one Swirling through my imagination. You breathe in my poetry Like a Mediterranean breeze, I cried and called you Aphrodite, Now I’m certain that you’re Daphne, Forever running away from me. Other women are minutely alive in memories, Vague footnotes to my poetry, I can’t remember what they mean to me, I’m not sure they exist, But you remain, even in the silence Of the long months of disappearance. I hope the man holding your hand Comprehends what he is doing, That his mind is racing desperately With feverish thoughts for your happiness, That he is forever in floral shops Seeking out enchanting and exotic bouquets for you, Bargaining with a chorus of angels To sing your name in a mystical mantra. If he fails and loses you, He may become a lonely poet, too, Describing every meticulous movement of his desire, Seeing you in every feminine shadow Dancing in his grieving mind. Erica, I will not write of you again, I’ll let my thoughts all blend into the universal, Write my praises to returning spring birds, Find flowery words for summery parks, Protect my despairing heart For the loneliness of hurting children. But if you ever speak a word to me, The same flood waters of this poetry Will drown my soul again With the same lovely misery.