but isn't the real tragedy that I found myself within you
as you briefly gazed into the mirror that is me and walked away
isn't the real tragedy that I have become a vise of borrowed space
a gap to be filled by hands I have reached for in the dark
that I have misplaced my emptiness for loneliness
and in return
lost count of the bodies I have slipped into like old coats
trying to find the one that shapes me into the woman I was before you left
my bones may be empty but my fists are full of the laughter of native ghosts
mocking me for holding onto a love less real than they are
isn't the real tragedy that I can't place the nights I have attempted to answer my question of grief with ***
a wreckage of ash perading as anguish
but isn't that love
not seeing the explosion when you are the bomb
isn't the real tragedy that I am alive purely by luck at this point
that I am nothing more than a decorated shipwreck
*an obituary
my very own ceremony

maybe
we talk about
falling in love with someone's eyes
because
their eyes are
the key to finding what their souls hide

on a rock near an island - and a long forgotten shore
she stills sits there - the mermaid
graceful charming - but fading
eyes only looking at a mobile phone
won't see her anymore

nightfall at the seaside - another long forgotten shore
she starts singing  then - the siren
celestial sound - but fading
ears covered by headphones
won't hear her anymore

deepest forest - untouched nature
in a ring, so says the lore
she's  dancing there - the fairy
impishly cheerful still - but fading
senses focused on "smart e-devices"
won't feel magic anymore.....

© Heike Borgard 2017