GRIEF Poem: Sometimes I Talk About You Like You’re Dead, by An Phuong Nguyen

like you’re gone, long gone, or so I said.
Almost like stabbing a painting and going over with red.
You picked me open and stitched marbles into my sight
(a symphony of words exploding mid flight).
The clouds, too, bleed: edges of mist and sky—openings of wounds—
light spilling on darkened skin, thunderstorm violin-tuned.
Rest in peace, dearest. Woe is the heart of the wanter,
that a mirage of you is the hunted and I the hunter.
A crack. Lightning. Flicker. A vestige, a whisper.
When we meet again (I hope we never do),
I’ll still be stuck loving an echo (It used to be you).
And you and your voice and your kaleidoscopes of colors
—which has been spun countless times, of course—
and I’ll tell you that I missed you (which only grows duller)
and rain, rain, incessant rain, and we’ll waltz.
A crack again—the skin ruptures. A momentary bruise,
a flick!—staccato. A gift wrapped in rushed excuse,
a muttered apology, from me to you and only you.
The smell of petrichor. Sweet-smelling grass,
inky dew. I hold water in my hands, a futile grasp,
Goodbye, my dear. Let’s never meet again.

Author: poetryfest

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