A General, deemed by the stars you plucked from a summer sky,
you refuse to wear the flag of a constellation-filled heart,
instead tucking it behind ribs you forgot were translucent,
as you prepare to march off in battle of yourself, bravery feigned.
But like Indian summers that linger, your steps falter
and I bend like long, summer grass to your waning touch.
Your impending drought looms, and my rain dance can't compete
with the pounding of soldiers' boots and war-torn hearts,
and I crack and wither in the dust of ghosts, decay, and goodbyes.
In revolt of mourning's light, tides roll in shells whispering old memories.
Where gentle mounds and valleys once offered refuge;
where neglect falls upon the garden you once harvested for my nectar,
used to patch your holes and heal your wounds;
here, these blossoms now bloom dead.
The stillness of long, dark nights toils on and
I still dream of tracing my fingers along your seams;
connecting the dots where your light seeps out, forgiving the darkness;
flanking your worries with my lips, reassuring you of the risks;
and pulling out your demons with my teeth.
It wasn't so long ago I tasted your plans and choked on the medicinal
exit strategy you used to stop your lonely soul from swallowing mine.
Unintentionally, you keep me a prisoner; my heart starved, you are my incubus.
But you're so far gone, you no longer hear my pleas of surrender:
You can['t] have me.
Tonight, I'll pluck stars from the summer sky and paste them on my cheeks,
honoring the casualties of our needs we once masked with wants,
and our joy forsaken for the dirt paths trodden with footprints bearing our name,
but never our dreams.
Copyright © 2012 Jennifer Fowler
All Rights Reserved