THESE HUGE VAST THOUGHTS OF YOU

THESE HUGE VAST THOUGHTS OF YOU

 

These huge vast thoughts of you

prove nothing

except they’re too hard to carry.

They’re the same old Sisyphian stones

I’ve been rolling uphill

ever since you left me

standing on quicksand

like a half-finished pyramid

that just lost its reason for dying.

And I’m way past crying.

I’m dark water locked in the heart

of a distant planet

that doesn’t support life.

I look up at the nightsky now

remembering you as you were then

and I’m always one house shy of a zodiac.

There.

At the end.

There’s a space

where that last sign of you

used to be

and a galactic black hole

that keeps sucking me in

like a bird into a jet engine

to try and see in the dark

if there’s a way out of here

I haven’t tried before.

I’ve followed my footprints

like scars in the deserts of Mars.

Using my penis for a compass

I’ve been an undercover boyscout

looking for signs of life on Venus.

Now there are too many event horizons between us

too many bent dimensions

too many worlds

too many millions of lightyears away

too many swords and bells

too many full moons

crossed out on the calendar

like Xs on boarded up plague doors

for longing to bridge the gaps

in the unimaginable vastness of space

by jumping from one constellation to the next

like an ancient collection of starmaps

looking for one that shines

as you once did

when things that were hidden

deep in the heart of the night

were revealed

without resorting to signs.

I’ve never stopped missing you

though it would be good advice

in sensible shoes

if I could.

And it’s not out of respect for the dead

that the wound never heals

that parted us like the Red Sea

but more the way love feels

when it’s leaving Egypt

for a promised land

it’s not allowed to enter.

Which one of us was the cause?

Which one of us was the effect?

How could anyone answer that

when I remember looking at you

through the doorway into your studio

reworking your canvas

over and over again

late into the night

and I used to think

as you mixed your colours like instincts

even our flaws are perfect

when our eyes are a work of love.

 

PATRICK WHITE