saved, accidentally, by gregory again

the way he said the word
melissa
with such broken tenderness
that dark face with huge semitic teardrop eyes
a heart-shape in menstrual blood
traced on his guitar
marlboro reds and the unpleasant smell of ginger candles
the velvet coverlet across the bed
in patchwork squares of gold and blue and wine
that enormous instrument,
late-night dramatics, screaming from
california to brooklyn of such betrayals and rages,
wonderful and terrible conversations interchangeable,
almost-
'believe!
it
remains
true,'
he said-
'this
fire,
etched,
eternal.'
never feeling so bad about anyone or anything
in my life-
what holdovers from nineteen ninety-five
when i was sixteen
and impossibly open-
so perfectly ready and unready to love-
when I was a thing that could be spoiled or kept,
not a person, with doors that have locks
and reasons which i will not excuse.
so waiting, a year ago on a rooftop
was the unmaking of the year (years) before
and the start of the next.
so, at molly's hoping that the yanks would score
breaths redolent with octoberfest sausages and butter and cold wine
caught suddenly and very, very reluctantly
in an embrace that changed everything from bad to worse
to well again
-just a bit late for a new year-
and then, gone
gone gregory again
just like the last time,
and it's just as well.