The General

You've always spoken with the great finesse

of a Grand War General

urging a broader conquest 

so as to add a pin or a star, 

or the coveted golden button to your lapel

That will shine with swollen sunlight

 and gleam the brightest fragment I'd ever see

with these eyes blurring tears....

 

"Understand", you say, sipping the sight

 of a crowd bent with salutes:

flagging pistols above 

scrubbed waxy boots

your banners flapping proudly over

every ledge and lip. 

 

I watch your chin as it pivots that gaurded gaze  

over faces awaiting words

(mine's the most ernest)

oh, you can see I'm shameless by that burn in my eyes

(a certain madness)

that matches yours as you whisper, 

"this is all that I love".

 

I can't move or budge, 

dried stiff like the paint

on your screaming, block-lettered

propaganda boards

sticky and permanent and black

(this is it)

dribling towards the pavemnent as it congeals...

 

You turn 

a broad smile blaring

beneath those eyes that drown me

if you know that you rob me of air you don't say,

 

only

 reach out curled fingers

and open them around mine

as brief and brushing as a kiss

my hand catches the small cold token 

plucked with threads from your jacket

still hanging

 

And though I barely see it,

it's there.

A little hole remains

rippped neat and tidy in your coat

(woven of tight fibers so immaculately)

leaving a space right over your heart.

Satisfied, I pocket it:

all I'll ever have of you.

 

At last.