midding

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you were packing your stuff

your then girlfriend was helping out

I was sitting on the carpet

ripping off the woolen threads

and there was someone else there

but I don’t remember much

and I keep forgetting things

but I swear you stood on top

of the bed, and I don’t know why

but I burned it all in my head:

yachts, money, Thailand, a reunion

Berlin, a house, carpentry, coding

a family, your future son's name,

coming back, leaving, all the shit

your mom gives you that idles unused

like your vitamin tablets - luggage a

portable pharmacy that can make a

hospital cross blush; everything

was slipping through grins while around

the corners of our mouth were accordion

lines playing farewells and goodbyes.

I thought at the time, "I'd miss this"

& it took me out & I felt like

an old man fading away, replaying

watercolor memories blended

together uncommaed

with all the mojito whites peacock greens

summer-dazed ambers lavalamp indigos

Miles Davis blues 3AM blacks stoplight reds

swallowing, dancing, sleeping all over

until the brush strokes mere dry

crusted horse hairs, and there's nothing

but the sound of it scraping

away the dust that's layered over thick.

Yet when this word "midding"

flashed that still on cranium dome,

there's no longing, no nostalgia, no missing

but just love,

reminding me that even though

yachts, money, Thailand, a reunion

Berlin, a house, carpentry, coding

a family, your future son's name,

coming back, leaving will all never happen,

what we he had did,

and that's good enough for me.

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