It’s the first of September, chill creeping in,
stars gleam without a care as we now begin.
The woman, behind her dark hair, whispers:
“The angels, demons, are all estranged sisters.”
I brought the Angel Michael medal she gave.
One of her many treasured I made sure to save.
The woman clutches into in her tight fist, sighs.
There are only so many unclaimed miracles in the sky.
The woman’s eyes flutter, as the waves crash, recede.
I have learned no escape in drunkenness, sweetest mead.
I need to hear her voice, say goodbye, say: “I love you, still.”
With whatever angels listen, I will gladly make a deal.
The woman’s eyes open, and it’s her that gazes out her eyes.
My heart flutters and breaks, in this bittersweet surprise.
I take in a moment, as a smile comes, conspirital and wild.
The unburned spirit of a woman who kept freedom of a child.
“I love you.” I say, tears flowing know. “I love you. I see you in stars.”
“I see you in old Grail Romances. I see you in the sanctuary that was ours.”
And the smile becomes wider, but sadder, and I she kisses my cheek.
A sweet eternity passes between us, no need now for us to speak.
And then she is gone, and the woman is back, and the medal is gone.
Her empty fist opens, and she strokes my cheek, so far from warm dawn.
I stay on the beach as the woman leaves, watching stars and ocean churn.
What I do now, what I can dream now, what love remains, so difficult to discern.
A ghost in this worn hoodie, blue and deep,
An ocean once, long ago, now almost dry,
Like finally my eyes, that she is gone and lost.
A scent, faint, of her sweet perfume, the funk
Of her sweat, the smell I knew holding her close,
That was sweet too, as was her washed, in bed.
Still a pack of smokes in the pocket, not what did
End up killing her, just bad luck, bad day, bad shit,
And the cigarettes are stale, just rags of wasted death.
I wear it in this cold season, walking home on dead
Streets and boring stores and empty skies, keeping
Her close, feeling her spirit in fabric soaked with her life.
But it becomes me, sweating in winter, and my scents
Chase hers away, and the cigarettes will eventually be
Thrown out, and it will only be me, me chasing her out.
Even ghosts are worn down by tides and seasons and life.