leftover
Peter (my bf) flew away early this morning,
like Shakespear’s eagle, “leaving no tracks.”
Now I lay here, as a leftover or Millais’ drowned ‘Ophelia.’
That’s an image ripped from adolescent, female visual culture.
Time‘s adversarial magic drags us ever future-wise,
eroding sweet moments we would cling to.
Shall we poetize?
I want a quiet afternoon,
on the bright side of the moon.
It’s an actual-factual place,
convenient, in close outer space,
like mythical Elysium, Shangri-La or Valhalla
where I’d still be intertwined with my fella,
like characters from literature or legend.
A place where “I’ll get to it tomorrow,”
is, alas, an everlasting pass,
because on the dusty, unreeling moon,
tomorrow never arrives,
our lovers never have to go,
and we can relax, scantily clothed,
simply enjoying the everlasting earthrise.
.
.
Songs for this:
To The Moon by Meghan Trainor
Moon River by Frank Ocean
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