Cold In Your Bed, Alone Poem by Joshua Bantum

Stripped to skin with imperfection.
Bright as a sun with heat to burn strong away any thought to judge,
she was...

and I,
drunk on her bed,
began to write, of she, who was,
simply, and plainly, was.

She watched me, and I her,
soaked in absence from each other; and she yearned like a flower must yearn when the beating wings of a bee are not heard during summer.

She stood, and I lay,
both watching for something,
beasts who have eaten, or starved in the past, but now complacent with either
completely accepting and compliant with both fates.

This is what the new year brings. Memories that have finally fell to not either extreme of good or evil, but memories. Ones I can write, ones I can tell, ones absolved of both doubt and hope. Ones that simply take on the garments of definition, pure, memories bare. Equally destructive and magnificent; so much so they no longer make a vibration inside of me. That last frail vibration has gone here, inside my palms, crawling to my fingers, the keys, dead hitting on plastic, dead buried beneath letters, dead, rotting into sentences and growing… back into ideas that may or may not carry on through you, the reader, the surrogate of implanted inspiration birthed into creation.