In the end, the dusty remains of a body are a new beginning- filled with electric energy, you exploded, expanded, sending smoldering embers through the atmosphere. I promised you would matter, you are matter, now you are everything that matters... the last song recorded, unopened vinyl, four doses of LSD, one crusty toothbrush, the bracelet with the broken latch and the word "perfect" in your handwriting.
[No, let's start here.]
Recently, I've had hallucinations, of you and I, the conversations we shared the November night we escaped our city's banter, take me back through unpaved roads, the dull star on repeat- repeating, I'm repeating this experience: an apparent perception of someone not present, someone organically gone; their atoms in disarray, no longer condensed in a concentrated human state. Here I sit, staring, seeking out the intangible in the ghosting air, subjective as the meaning you denied, I ask 'is there ever an end?'
[Wait let me try that again.]
There is no escaping this. Your stained sweatshirt from the pile of laundry we kept meaning to get to, balled up in my arms at night, when you come to me, with every particle and pore resurrected- you are now tangible. Then a tintinnabulation occurs, with phantom bells preceding your voice, it's cashmere- soft speech blanketing my ears, caressing my nerves, until my brain receives the message that these are just lively illusions. So I sigh, thinking about Taoism, envisioning dominos: the beginning of all things, predestined paths, and a sage with too much expectation.
[Maybe this is better.]
I'm envious of the Universe. I wanted to disassemble you, I wanted to grind your skin cells into atomic fragments, put them into my pipe and light the softest particles of you on fire, to finally feel the burn, of what you swore love should parallel. Deeply, I'd inhale you into my lungs, hoping if I held it in, I could still savor your subsidence inside me- blasting off into a euphoric trip of memories, like when your madness melted me, with it's fiery revelations and how it matched the sauntering sunset. Careful in contemplation, of what the night would bring. The night brought an end to light. The night brought blood. The night brought mourning. The end is never really the end. There is always something worth revisiting. I'm stuck circling, searching for the right way to feel. Does the loss of a nihilist matter? I promised you would matter, you are matter, now you are everything that matters. Remembering, if I wrote a poem about loss, it would start and end in the same place.