For LK, and the Mag

I wish there were no ifs
Or buts, or lingering maybes –
But only the delirium
Of the re-memory of your face,
Etched in my heart like
The ravines a swollen river
Carves in broken shale.

I wish there was no
ochre coloured space;
this drizzled, empty place,
stained with this ache
from the itch of
a thousand broken pieces

Oh that there were
between you and I –
a half uttered invitation.
I would cross seven mountains,
seven valleys and
seven swollen river beds too,
to pour a libation
at your feet, and revel
in this delirium…

I wish there were no ifs,
no buts, no reluctant maybes
Yet all that is left here
Like a bad song played relentlessly
In my head, is a sad, dull knowing
Of loss, and the sense
Of a difficult ending