After The Cloud

I climbed a mountain to try to forget you.

I carve out my heart every night, set it upon a pyre and let eagles swoop down on it, to tear it apart piece by piece. In the morning, it is whole again. Is this the price I pay for knowing what love is? On the bed, in the space next to mine, there is another man, another man whom I do not love. It is dark in this hut, and very, very cold. We are miles apart, he and I, but I know I am still with you. Years later, I can still feel your hands on my back, your mouth flickering tiny fires on the inside of my thighs. You were a jealous man, so I told you about my other lovers, the ones that came before you, to make you want to possess me over and over again. I wrote to inflame you, but in the end, they were only words, like yours, words we've burnt up along with everything else that we'd given each other.

If I shouted from up here, 2500 feet above the ground, would you hear me? I know you have forgotten everything; I suspect even my name is lost to you. That is of no consequence: someday, I am told, there will be someone else. And always, there is someone else.

But it's not you. Perhaps, it never was.