musée

 

in hindsight,
almost none of the words i wrote during him were beautiful.
i think of him as an eclipse 
as some suspension of time where
     (arrogant in his impenetrability,
      preoccupied by his victory,
      basking in the surety of my retention even as i flared from every edge)
he forgot:
     even stifled, warmth can be sensed.
     light seeks light. 

impermanent by definition,
his incredulousness was delicious as his last sliver slipped back into the blackness -
as he began to wane 
as i broke


as i rose