Eros Apocrypha

Steeped in romantic comedies

and the smoldering repartee of Bogie and Bacall,
the snappiness of Grant and Hepburn.
Their love captured
in a look
a touch
a whistle
the perfectly synchronized steps of Fred and Ginger.

Ephemeral clips I interpreted

as eternal
truth.

Those dramas illuminating

the chilly withdrawals,
averted gazes and
epic betrayals,
I recanted.

No matter, I directed my own.

Scripted with lofty expectations of bliss,

they drowned in the daily deluge of ordinary life.

Sacrificed on the altar of my Hollywood indoctrination.

Sounding Device

Sometimes I need a reminder

of the chasm formed inside,
a visceral, palpable measurement
of its breadth and depth.

Like a drop of water in an empty well,

your touch echoed soundlessly in its hollows,
a perfect sonogram:

loss love loss love

lost.