an architectural tragedy

I am sad like an orphan, I am sad
like expired milk.

the greatest of distances, dotted lines
of latitude, the lengths I’ve promised
I’d go, cannot always
be bridged.
somewhere in between the waiting,
spanning time like noise in the branches,
the thicket’s dead stare, I sink down and into
a reality of curdled disease.

I’ve shared space and air and sighs
with those too close for comfort; a
warm chair, dry-heave tag-teams
racing for the sink, an erect palm
waving a pride that should be mine.

I’ve had all the time in the world
to waste on mistakes. with make-shift
memories, I’ve built my own bridges
from bed to bed to bed, rising above
my sour shadow, their
telltale invitations to gape
or leave.

I am empty like the sky, I am sad
like sutured skin.

I’ve tried to build a bridge of love
alone, but it’s overgrown
and endless
and not strong enough to close
this widening hole.