I hate him, she says
as the tears burn down her face into the
cracks in her lips
scorching a path away from tenderness.
I hate him because I’m watching him and I see
that he doesn’t get it
and then I think
he can’t get it and at the last moment
a bell rings at some altar
and he does.
And it’s me
that he gets and I hate
that it’s me that is him.
It’s me that I hate in the fact of all those
loves that weren’t
got and wasted,
and I am the one who appears on the screen.
Now I know why I grasp quite so tightly
to this one now.
I don’t get it either,
not this one anyway but somehow
I have been absolved on the leaving.
I too, lie on the bed beside you
and the tears that dry beneath me
become salt crystals.
My salt crystals.
I am tired she says,
and in the crustiness of old sheets
I have forgotten how to hate
and how to love
and I hold onto this impression
of your body once in the bed beside me,
Poem: © The Forgetfulness Of Absolution by J. L. Nash
Image: © Milan Vukmirovic for L’Officiel Hommes #13 with Kerry Degman