By my Love for You,
I. Apology ...
Sometimes I watch you from behind:
your shoulders, avian, aflutter.
Your ruby hands;
the feet that carry you to me
and then away.
I know I wrong You.
Your eyes black pools; your skin eruptions of what is
and could have been.
I vow to make you happy, but
my Hunchbacked Self
just tolls the bells
and guards you from afar.
II. ... And Thanks
In the wasteland that is Me
Your eyes black petals strewn
across the tumbling masonry.
Your stem resists my winds.
Your roots, deep in my soil,
toil in murk to feed both you and me,
to nurture Us.
And every day a spring,
and every morn a sunshine:
you’re in my garden,
you blossom day and night.
Your sculpted daint feels
in my hands like oneness.
III. In Toronto
So much is left unsaid between us.
Your crests of silence
fallen on my shores of pain.
IV. Dedication (9th Edition of “Malignant Self-love”)
You are in every carefully measured space,
In every broken word
That we had mended with
The healing hyphens of our together-
This book, the memory of us,
A record of survival
Against all odds.
Malignant Self- gives way to love, two points, we are:
V. Happy 2014 (dedication on the book “Macedonian Woodcarving”)
Carved in the wood of our togetherness, entwined,
the chiseled hurt of us:
sprawled in your arms, my wounds
and your iconic smile,
Madonna of leaves and angels.
Only one unicorn we are,
sheltered behind the royal doors
to our love. And you?
My own Iconostasis.
VI. Dedication (10th Edition of “Malignant Self-love”)
In the tenth edition of our lives, we:
backs bent upon
the pain of editing the past.
You in my studio, I in your night,
pecking at keyboards,
And outside? Rain chases Sun
and cats among narcissi
and new life sprouts and old.
We leave behind only these sheaves
of paper children,
VII. Remember Me
Very often, I cannot remember me.
But I remember that you make me happy.
You make me happy when:
We watch a film together
We eat your delicious food
We talk (and talk and talk)
You smile with enormous cheeks
I hold your delicate bird-like hand in mine
You run and stumble on the way to our bed
You talk to and agree with or argue with yourself
You make our apartment a home with gentle touch and souvenirs
You return at night, flustered, excited, loving
You listen to the birds, feed all the cats, talk to the dogs (they listen)
You make me very happy Lidija.
And this is why I am not back - because I never left.
In search for Sam, I am moving towards him - not away from you.
And in the dim, dreamlike existence that I lead,
in the turbulent whirlpool that I am,
a vortex and an apparition,
a sepia shadow of myself,
pure dust - from this nothingness,
for lack of another, better word, I feel.
I call it love. My love for you.
Having forgotten all else - even us - I remember only you,
and survive from one visit of yours to another,
knocking on echoed doors behind which I am not,
scribbling furiously in a journal,
a diary that will never be written.