get to the apology already
Matt Spillum

I had a memory of you
saw your freckles mapped
in the night sky. You opened
your mouth, to sing or speak…
round and tucked lips and worship.

I saw your paintings on our burgundy walls,
leaned on a memory of brocade and velvet
When there were tables and incense,
cats and carpets,
lamps and the knowledge that each day
was headed in some direction or other.

Where do I begin? I was wrong over and again.
You were wrong over and again.
It isn’t as though I miss it. Just that I
miss knowing that home meant arms and
a beating heart. Dusky fabrics and music.

You once asked me, “Do I inspire you?”
I never thought to ask you the same question.
We never measured the distance
between passion and expectation. One
became the other when we weren’t looking.
Disappearing inspiration was an excuse.

I may have left the keys in the Blazer.
I seem to remember it that way now.
It is possible that my desperation for closure
would allow me to admit anything.
To know it was alright. I still cringe
over Edinburgh arguments and next room tears.

I still marvel that such art was so near me
for so long…to leave, what? A muddy
snow-angel on my soul. Whisky-soaked nights and
screaming fights, flash fire Halloweens and
go-through-the-motions gigs. A thousand reasons
to hate myself, and none of them matter.