i'm so sorry A

i can sit here in my enclave of synthetic silk surrounded by dry flowers of dry colour with the thin long remote control on my right
and the plump short one on my left
watching the square gray of my tv
seeing my stale square gray self watching me
sip the entrails of my filtered black in the new mug that is a hundred years old
i thought of you when i bought that mug and how it walked out of the painting of dainty primstresses having tea
holding no balancing demurely their cups on their polished hands over a dollop of fresh, early morning what-nots what-if's and if-evers.
someone is drinking out there
sometimes sipping savouring gently gargling the bourbon heat of our lives down their deep throat
letting it suffuse pour a gentle glow in a circle of warmth
but there's more than a blue moon when the glow the heat the delicious warmth is so intense it lies in a ball of fire
it causes a gulp a choke
half the liquid goes down without so much as a splash of syrupy sensation
and the liquid essence that was life
the shiver of vitality of vibrancy of cheeks red with hope
with life
is now a blackhole of nothingness
just like that
like kobayashi in the usual suspects
and you are left behind boiling in grief in rage in rabid rage
at the cruelty of random design and the cruelty of being left alone to take care of the living, that may, someday, opportunely, or in-opportunely,
be choked on and gulped.
straight down.
big bitch she is, life.
sorry about the pain the pain even dickinson could not describe
the pain too painful to utter to word and that noone else can claim
that mortifying pain will, one day, i promise you, stumble upon a little clearing bathing in a sun of *happy* memory and discover him
smothered there among the beautiful flowers breathing the beautiful colours of life,
watching you with a smile on his face.
so square your shoulders feel the pain. one day it will turn into a happy thought!