S'en Aller

You creep up on me,
late August,
creep into the corners
of the rooms I walk in
in cities no belonging to me.
You show up in flashes:
a young man's sweater,
a girl's eyes
in wine so sweet it is almost unbearable.
You pop my peripheral,
and I'm dreaming of this
in the house of my lover,
in a house made of you.

Three years is a dream decieved;
you're horrid and I only miss you
when you appear suddenly and go just as soon.
I don't miss you at night anymore,
and I don't wake up startled
from a 'mareish kiss.
I don't dream of Iran,
or Muslim weddings.

But you creep up on me,
in late August,
every year,
with physical reminders as if God is saying,
'don't forget this.
don't forget him.'
as if I could when your memory
is still the ink of a thousand pens
and the paint on my brush in winter.

A thousand pieces are still missing
but my heart has stopped tearing
when you pop my peripheral
in blue.