Where do I lack in my love?
I’m gasping for breath, eyes gawking – must be the panic attack again.
Water, water everywhere, nor any drop to drink, you seem to
be repeating Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s famous line like a broken record.
Creases, slim-shirred, splay out across my forehead like mist drifts over a lake;
You’re struggling to grasp its coherence – perhaps the world is coming
to an end in the corner of my eyes.
But you’re in a distant land inside the meshes of a silk curtain –
Our love, a red bow of ribbon fastened to its pleats.
This isn’t part of our vows or shall I repeat? You say.
That astounding image of you, graphic.
Breath prayers, your concerns now frayed at the edges of the
worry beads, anti-tension – you’re still a slave to custom.
I would rather you didn’t keep
this moment until one afternoon in our next reincarnation.
I blink, only reducing the surface
tension of my tear film, perhaps for the last time.