by Darryl Price
Oh I do wish I did have something more red this time than more blue this time to
fling up in the silly air like ribbons or neon string for you now, all I can come up
with are chewed on memories that look remarkably
like the threads of a once cherished
but now gone to seed favorite blanket of mine. I always
said I was against nostalgia
as a way of life, but I yearn, I do,
for a drink again of something utterly
new. I collected all these years of
these shells for garbage.And now once more I
cast them like dice at your old name. Let them
sink away, please, take them back, back into
the deepest part of everything, far from
where I sit with my emptiness, an old
silent writer with no words for love.
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I hate the idea that there's even a spot of something like pity in this piece for you, but I see what you might mean. My shot here was for an honesty of approach and a kind of aching beauty about the long term effects of actually maybe caring about someone so deeply and for so long. Remorse with dignity? Is there even such a thing out there in the universe?The very notion is ridiculous by nature. I think that's what the poem asks and resigns itself to in the end. It is what it is the moment you ask for any definition of its ultimate meaning. It freezes at the point of acceptance.It recedes without warning is all you can be sure of.