Forgetting is forgotten
against the breathing loss
of everything we once were,
long ago, before you thatched
your soul’s hearth with psychobabble
and removed me from the fray.
When I wouldn’t rebuild myself
and open gates to uncover
the roles I played each day,
formed and fostered
from the inception
you said goodbye.
Thousands of people were following
A room full of them bobbled their heads
with smiles that welcomed me
to the fold.
My spirit felt groped.
In that room, where you began
to rebuild your life—
my heart began to break
knowing I could not join in the training,
knowing I wanted to be who I was, as I was,
without a bobbling head.
And so, bubbling with sorrow we split the sheets.
Today, flashes of who we were send
stones fluttering up my sternum
reminding me that love never dies;
transmuted it remains, unrealized
from that day when ideas clashed
and the earth tilted on its axis
with the enormity
of our loss.
Brenda Warren 2012
Visit The Sunday Whirl.