Resuscitation

The pauses between her rants were always deafening
and of course, she knew that,
then there's her conversations in hiding
to friends, family, whoever might listen
broadcasting innocence and victimization.

I spoke to no one, never had the urge
to show anyone the moth-bitten fabric
that we so subtly wore -

I was always on an aimless crusade
and she knew that too.
Scared her more than any silences,
you can't trust or rely on someone who
needs no one or nothing.

There were always demons between us
passing through us
rendering me blind, dumb and ghostly
like an emotional leper.

I let it all sieve through and just watched
it's not that I didn't care, but more that I couldn't.
(numbing demons)

On a whim I take my guitar
down from the cupboard and unzip the case,
something reminds me of digging up
and opening a coffin to reveal a past
that is not yet dead.
To my amazement it's still in tune,
tough little fucker.

I put it on my right thigh,
slide my left hand down its long
smooth neck;
my right hand waves over her contours.
First sign in a long time
I feel
my heart is not yet
castrated.
I feel.

I slide my thumb down the five strings of A minor
then down the six of E minor
the potent vibrating depth of the bass strings
instantaneously pull my blood a few beats faster
and teach me how to forget.
I pick my way through minor keys
and lose myself in strings performing
ballet on the rosewood fretboard's floor.

The room sneaked dark while I was gone
but now I'm back, so is my memory.
I zip up sanctuary and place it
back in dust.
I'll dig it up next time I need
to learn to forget.