i thought myself a cornucopia

there’s a cavern in my chest,

more like a rift,

abyssal, abysmal,

existential,

the kind of hole that only love could

open.

/

i’ve tried to plug it,

to imbue it

with cheap miracles,

fleeting pursuits,

and false idols.

/

i’ve met electricians

who promised they could solder it,

surgeons certain they could cauterize it,

seamstresses who swore

they could sew it shut,

yet you keep leaking out of me,

the ooze feels primordial.

/

i’ve pressed my hand inside

to slow the bleeding

and grew solemn

when it came back empty,

not interlocked with yours.

/

the winds weave through the opening,

making it whistle,

a bluebird at dawn,

some days.

/

other days,

if you breathed into it,

i’m sure a viking war would start,

that wailing ache enough

to launch a thousand ships.

/

today,

it’s a dull thud,

the hostage in me

stomping the basement floorboards,

the song of persistence

/

i’ve tried to make myself a cornucopia,

a horn of plenty,

harvesting every memory of you,

thinking the recollection alone

could nourish me

/

the abundance of our moments,

the hearth-heat of growing in your love,

my life once overflowing

from learning your components,

that ephemeral prosperity,

for you were the crop

that never failed me.

/

but time has its own chemistry

and lately,

when i reach for those memories,

they come up corrupted, overripe,

too sweet, then sour,

and all that once sustained me

now ferments.

/

i thought i could be your vessel

a promise for more,

that my love was enough,

and my offerings could sway you

/

but the truth is

i’m riesling

that nostalgia turned to vinegar,

a barrel of spoiled wine,

still full,

still yours,

still aching to be poured into you.