Left Behind

Left Behind
By Chris Biles

Having returned
I stand over you
as sleep turns you to marble
the color of a dying storm.
A dawning memory
here at daybreak,
I stand over your naked form,
your white question mark of a body,
so close, yet
inaccessible.
I stand over you
and dig bleeding moons –
crescents, waxing
into my palms.
“Truth is beautiful,
without doubt,
but so are lies.”
Old habits die hard,
and my greedy secret sorrows
left our love to freeze
beneath dried leaves.
But how to explain
the whirr of wings in my head?
How to articulate
the way I am transported
through the windows of my skull
to an existence of forgotten memories:
my immortal muse.
You told me I am lean with memories,
left on the verge of happiness,
and you can’t stand there with me,
swaying on the street corner.

Well, having returned
to stand swaying over you
I can say this:
The stars may go round
and round
in my head,
but they bring me such joy
as I cannot find anywhere else.
Within my lies,
there is beauty,
and if you had but stepped
into my forest to see
that sunlight and shadows
indeed chase each other in the wind –
a game with no winner
you’d have seen the truth in my eyes:
great glowing joy
mixed with the fire
of suppressed fury.

So sleep.
Sleep in your question form,
in your hypocritical lack of care
to understand.
You are a dying storm.
You are marble.
You are cold.
You are left behind.