Sylvie Hill

Same As On The White Horse

What? Am I to continue to riff off a blue lake
Or a Dorian
Gray landscape of Russell Square for a guy who acted
like Russell Brand?
I’m not sure. I should have written more in the moment.
What I captured in the red notebooks
said it all so well; was realistic.
Now I go back to make believe
to fantasy
I need time off to pull together pieces.

These are the hardest things:
Admiring the precision with which you recalled various scenes.
Knowing how you nailed the logic for her, for me, perfectly.
Wondering if you knew, as Muse, this is what needed to be.
Discarding the history, letting another 13 years be?
You will be 57, near death, do we wait for this?
I wait for nothing all the while puckering my lips – inward
Letting no mouth come near where was his last kiss has been.
A tremendously bad lay but letting no man erase this.
Such intimacy laid bare to pain for someone’s vulnerability in this.
In the end, this: I waver not a fucking inch at my worth.
But feel so sad for you.
If I was she in the Canada of the south, I would vomit in my mouth
at how much you run around, like Ms Sidney said, it’s too much.
I kept wanting to tell you: “Stop what you’re doing, you will die.”

No cliché: it’s as if you’re already dead.
“We’re no spring chickens,” you said.
Had I heard that I would have asked: “Is this why you settled?”

I feel bad (again) for being so disappointed in reality,
fantasy was far superior –
I agree when you said “if you met me, you might not like me, I’ve got a sharp tongue.”
I would have excused a few things if you said you were nervous
or a premature ejaculator.
I regret on the blackout registering nothing on your body
I always thought I would look for scars of the armor you grow
to toughen your insides such that they puncture your heart.
I remember feeling a hairy chest. A beautiful manly cologne scent.
Robust buttocks. Tall-standing stature floating, flawless.
A shared toothbrush.
You, shocked, at my hand on your shoulder bringing you water.
And a foot in outline, same one as from the white horse.
But nothing more – and those big hands closing a suitcase.
More so than ever not wanting to prove my worth
I smile so hard knowing what love I’ve been capable of bringing forth.
Not to him – ever – who cares anymore!
Not even as a friend, you’re not my value.
You said of two attached men who strayed
That “men will take the opportunity if presented to them that way.”
Those men are scum, and you’re the same way.

But then I remember a photo of she of the Canada of the South
Pulling your arms around her, made it seem like you don’t touch
My first thought was she’s commanding
The second he’s not touchy-feely
And photos of orange-cat eyes, a crooked mouth – an arial shot
And knew through a camera lens, this guy felt love.
“I love her,” he said and “she loves me.”
Poor bastard living in spite of making a decision about she.

You, shocked, at my hand on your shoulder bringing you water.
And a foot in outline, same one as from the white horse.

© Sylvie Hill 2013

* Horse picture from Sarah Blasko’s “All I Want.”