Glance

I can still hear the echoes of those words -
those last words -
they have been here before:

and how well they gnaw on my entrails
and spit them out,
only to lure them back in.

I let those words lure me back in.

But see, those words are not twisted and horrendous in the beginning;
no, that's how they get you - with gliding glances of wonder.
The first glance is exuberant sweetness,
a touch of tropical fruit and earthy warmth.

The second glance - ample awe,
completed with thunderstorms and the aching sea.
The third glance - stars under a canopy
of ripped cloth and salty rock,
foreign lands and heathen tongue.
The fourth glance - locks of embrace -
how you had longed to be Persephone.
The fifth glance - a stare,
completed with mind-reaping unbearable heat,
dark alleys and wasted streets.
The sixth glance - a nightly visit to the woods
with blasting music and dancing wheels,
obnoxious seconds through the dawning eclipse.

And the last glance - those words,
carefully beaten, mindfully shaped -
the broken silence,
the twisted thread,
the eminent farewell.