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Poem

My love dissipated into the stagnant night.
The element of hope dissociated, evaporating, 
Nebulized by the lungs.
In great heaving gasps and salty residuum, 
It left me
Over the hours, the weeks, the years
you did not come.
Thickly the remainder condensed within me,
A molasses of ichor.
Of the godly blood of infants, 
still untouched, still golden.
Like honey crystalizing and darkening.
My love could find no purchase, no home, no return
With nowhere to go, it came to be grief.

My grief could not leave me 
Could not run through my blood 
The way that love did.
It trudged dutifully 
Sweeping across the lumen laboriously, painfully.
My grief could not leave me 
But it's stay was equally untenable 
For a living thing, unsustainable, insatiable.
So the body, in self preservation 
Pooled its surfeit humors, it's vinegar 
To dilute the congealed state.
It buzzed and burned as sluggish poison tempered
Melting under smooth hydroxyl ideals 
of fairness and fault.
Visions of transcendental creatures making right.
Anger put the power back in my bones
And clung like the rabid dog.

Love cannot leave you, not truly.
It changes shape, changes chemical composition
But it is always in living.

It can always be made pure again.
It doesn't need to hurt
You don't need to let it.

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