“I Lost My Poetry.” (No, You Fucking Didn’t…)

I Lost My Poetry by Illian Rain“I lost my sense of poetry”, you said.

You didn’t say that, actually—you said “I lost my poetry”, upon which I fell to my knees in search of your riddles.

But I found nothing, for it was your sense of the poetic that was misplaced and not your words. Yes, there is a difference, and no, I would not have otherwise knelt in your favour.

Your words however…your words…

I would descend to the underworld, basket in hand, to salvage the drippings from your tongue. Pieces of you—once severed—should not be left to rot, forgotten. And I would retrieve not just your musings or the arms that commit brilliance to paper but the arms attached to a heart fuller and more generous than I am accustomed to.

But words…your words.

I would plummet down not only for the heart that tastes the truth within the lies but for the heart that pumps blood and courage with every beat, every mad thump colliding with the drawbridge of my sometimes-salvation.

I would rescue the entire canon of your words even if they were condemned to languish in purgatory or hell. Especially then, my friend.

You did not lose your sense of poetry.
That is not possible for one like you.

You dropped it somewhere, carelessly, then wandered away in search of the saccharine to mollify the bitterness of new truths settling into old crevasses on a well-seasoned tongue. You sought to sweeten the flavor of all you had seen, the honeypot before you insufficiently replete.

You wandered, and your words followed, branched out, stretched, tasted both riverbed and sky while you were distracted by mint julep and craw daddies hiding deep beneath the river’s rocks.

Your words ran as you ran; perhaps alongside, perhaps behind, but never, ever where you could interfere with their liberation. Words are like teeth: orderly, purposeful, and only of note when they rebel or fall out of line.

Or fall out altogether…

You turned your back on this memory of words. You were ready to be free of them until you discovered you were only freeing you from yourself and it did not suit you.

You thought you died when you discovered this displacement but you are not dead, we will not convenience you as such.

Not yet anyway.

The time for amendments has come. You can or you cannot but no decision at all is just one more decision made.

I have lost myself you said.

But it is only the sense of yourself you lost, and though I dropped to my knees before you it was not in search of anything but to tie your shoes for the journey ahead, returning you to where you think you’ve been.

This seat of reckoning is gone, burned in the fire you kindled with every step forward. I needn’t mention you are not going back but catching up with everything you set in motion.

Muscles flexed, shoes tied you took the stairs one at a time, fingers trailing up walls and rails as you climbed.

We stood on the roof at dawn and practiced calling your words back to you. They came, for they are yours and wish to be nothing other (the decision is not theirs but we pretend otherwise to better delight in the voluntary return of your prodigal daughters and sons).

You weeded the weakest from the strong and sent what you believed into the world. Once freed they grew frayed and stained with the onrush of all they have touched and tasted. They are modified, and only the seed at their core remains familiar.

I stood quietly by as the old-new returned to you, by ones and twos and then in a sudden rush that trickled to a halt.

You are happy again. For now. But it will not last. How can it? Joy is temporal, as is the satisfaction of finally claiming that which you have freed and that which is yours by right.

The smell is different too, and the view, and the sound of it is alien to our ears. Yet it is not unfamiliar. Your heart is tattooed on the underbelly of all you have divined, all you have created. All you have loved.

I am one of those things, as you are to me. Regardless where we set each other down, regardless whither we wander we shall return, changed but familiar still.

If you do not recognize me just search my palms for the scars gifted me during my descent. The heat seared the metal of my basket filled with your parts into my palm for freedom is never, ever free.

There is no forgetting now.

The history of us is inked onto flesh that clutches pens in shaking fists or cups into a curl whilst fingers pound upon the keyboard, sending my words out to you to be stained with you-ness before returning for the cull.

We cut everything, you and me. But we keep that which is sacred close, kneeling to seek and to find while occasionally fall lower than bended knee to retrieve that which we have once more tossed against the wind.

About Illian Rain

I write things. Lots of things.

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