Death is no Lover I Would Have Chosen

Death is no lover I would have chosen,

insistent, unyielding, wound-raw.

Embracing grief over and over again,

defiant, as if to make death wait, while

I burn the reality of presence, not absence,

into my blood and tissue beyond removing.

 

Later, and somehow more welcome

A last touch, now remembered less often

Leaves me watching for memories

The way I once watched the open door

waiting to see her coming in.

 

Over and over again it washes through me

this warm flushed birthing of loves return

making grief suddenly, unbearably passionate

as the water of tears replaces sweat

in our embrace.

 

My muscles tighten and then

loosen again when I cry.

Finally I will clutch my tears to me

holding her alive in my body

my eyes closed, passion warming

the last living chapter in our loving
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before she is consigned to memory.

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