patroclus.

us, behind this
coarse fog of canvas.
sun beating against the red trims
of your skin -
- the rough
in the small of your back, my fingers
trace over
your pale spots
almost as if
you would twitch
and reanimate,
my blood
trickling
into you,
like the creeks
from those summers
spent on pelion.
irony in the tragedy
for it was me
who should have
died.

perhaps i could
resaturate
your violet lips
shaped still to utter
(i love you)
in timid brackets,
words
coaxed from
wind
fluttering softly
between convoluted
huffs and puffs
of breath.

i can still
picture
the way
the tip of your tongue
touches the roof
of your mouth, a place i know
as well as you do.
tongue twirling
to carve a word
from a solid noise
(lo)
your teeth
pressing down
your lip, the curve
of your pursed mouth
(ve)
that bounced with life
and animation, puckering
like fish guts
(y)
the final syllable
spoken with mellow intonation
(ou)
a word usually spoken to me
like it burnt their mouth, you said it
like ambrosia running
through the brass throat of a lyre,
the dappled garden of the gods, golden
and divine. a syrupy-sweet
song i miss tasting
between my impious teeth.

let the whole pantheon
and my beady-eyed brethren
and the foolish jury of history
witness the fire burning.
a lighthouse for others like us
solidified in marble.
let them behold my misery and weep
in an empty direction
while we huddle, cloaked in night
and in the gentle earth
with what we used to be.