Comorbidity

I have never felt worthy
to put your name to page
yet my hands are tied, tangled
caught up with strands of hair
that once collected like tumbleweed
and even now
it refuses to leave.

Half a lifetime ago, the light was fading
the ferry and the old beat-up wharf
lit up with orange and white
your lips tasted like vinegar chips
and that hair, it knotted in my grasp
binding sugar sticking fingers
whispering long good-nights.

Collected by birds to make their nests
or swept into spiders’ webs
wrapped around filters in the washer
the dryer, the vacuum and dangling
in clusters down every drain
there’s something of yours in every room
always.

I can feel my heart ossifying
with every obfuscation
foggy headed on a clear day
stoned before lunch drunk before dinner
with a brain like birthday cake batter
I shall never be worthy
to put your name to page.

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