(part 3 of The Detox Trilogy)
I can look but can't touch
the reels of underexposed film
that capture our moments
our memories
together but not.
I can look but can't touch
your hand holding the camera,
your finger on the shutter,
the flash flickering bright
before my hopeful eyes, blinding me
before I can recover cynicism.
I can look but can't touch
the globs of paint, the gluey paper,
the brush strokes of color
that smoothed out a lone house
on a deserted street
in mixed media and 3-D.
It hangs on my wall,
a permanent fixture in my memory.
I can look but can't touch
the pain behind your coal black eyes.
Passion slowly sparks a fire there,
but you let self pity and the determination
to suffer alone snuff it out and me out, too.
I stumbled from your quaint bluegrey stone home
choking on mary jane and incense,
the stench of responsibility smoked me out
and left me dazed and confused
and missing you.
I can look but can't touch...
can't turn the page on the story.
Fate had begun to write about us.
You're a storyteller
and a prophetic dreamer.
You knew how it could end,
but even Fate gives us the right
to choose to change her.
I can look but can't touch
and can't turn off
my dreams that haunt me
whether I'm awake or asleep,
at my desk or in my bed --
dreams of you courting me --
useless, hopeless fantasies
of a Ghanaian king
who had finally found and wooed
his ebony queen.
It's wise that I can't touch my memories
or I'd grab and fling them into the Atlantic sea,
anchor first, and watch them drown.
The chain locked and wrapped around
my ankles and knees.
What's the use in saving memories?
~cdw~
03/22/12
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