The Night I Left

Just a flicker of myself
caught in the subway glass—
blurred by speed,
almost real.

Wondering—are we
to be observed with cold eyes
of forgotten lovers?
People we used to discover,
who followed for a
short time into the darkness, still left
straddling a see-saw of desire.

Just another story in a life,
a million stories tall—
and only get'n higher.

Not one true love.
Not one unconditional moment of compassion.
Not one game left un-played.

All of us, slaves chained to
oars rowing the same direction.

The rhythm of whips and dreams
screams lessons of half-eaten apples,
brief, blinding commitments—
burning hotter than thirty suns,
and gone just as fast.

And in the death throes of this
rejected union—this collapsed mass of used-up feelings—
what is left that is appealing?

Finding some inner strength.
Some soulful healing.

Wishing for youthful rapture,
when the only pain came
from scraped knees and iodine stains.

Even then, all was forgotten with mother's breath,
hushed words, and a soft finger to wipe the tears away.

People always seek out what pains them.
Bliss comes only in flashes—
moments, flickering
in the dark glass
of a city that never looks back