traces of a lost language: tried not to write you

I tried not to write you, this poem, and failed.

I failed, not writing you into this poem.

And there you are, bright and clear as annoying dew

frosted at the top of a flaming sword,

impossible, but real.

I tried to fold and push any emotions, tight, into a bundle

of rags inside my head,

contained, safe,

in a box squared with the walls of the real, and it failed,

it failed to hold it all.

Its walls imploded for a long second, then fell and

hung in the air, shaped like the butterflies

they were trying to kill.

Boxing emotions is a heavy-weight combat,

I used to be the world champ of that.

Now I lay defeated on the ring,

the referee counting on top of me

as I spit out the bloody words

with every second, waiting for the bell:

three, two, one,

and my reason becomes nothing,

I control nothing,

I am nothing

but a sigh, a tremor, a surrendering beast

under the heavy boot

of the impossible turned to real

that so coolly defeats me.