Your Back 

by Christos Polydorou

It saddens me how,
In this world, is this it?
Even in your hands remarkable,
Fluid, humming, resonant,
A basket of orchids and vanilla pods.

An orchestra of orchids later.

Startling, telling, painfully concise,
Astonishes me how you see,
In this world.
Especially in your hands, extraordinary,
A clutch of golden eggs.

You don’t kill those.

My pear, here you are again.
Blind me.
Dazzle the rest.
It is as if you have never left.

Haunt me.

Know me, with your ghostly memory, always better than thee.
But I don’t feel like tearing you down anymore.
I want to come close to somebody else.

But you were an old soul in a young man’s beautifully flawed body.
Your refusal of me pushed me, pushed me away, on an island,
Like Tom Hanks, but without a Wilson
to talk to,
I allowed myself, to turn around, just once,
and it was to see you, walking away:

I wanted you more, than I have ever, wanted, anyone;
Now you are gone.
The shock of it, still bifurcating me,
putting me, on a spiral course of stars,
to anyone.

A split vanilla pod.

I come back to it.

I come back to it.

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