a life cycle of Saturdays

"When one burns one's bridges, what a very nice fire it makes." Dylan Thomas

and it should bother me

how i find comfort in these conversations,

burrowed in those silent stretches

thrumming your heart,

each battered beat

begging me to follow

foully, humming your farewells

since you were too busy to articulate

and i, the apathetic audience,

neglected to attend that Saturday.

perversely, strumming my calloused ink stained tips

along the length of lit paper star garland,

perplexing origami folds

and creases our wedding vows

and all that comes to mind is

i want to drizzle it in kerosene

to see those shooting stars

from auld lang syne,

when we laid in the dew dipped meadow

beyond your grandfather's barn

in that quixotic state of Saturday Matins,

where the fireflies veiled us in

under the meteor shower.

but those betraying fireflies!

now complacent as this winters lake,

a tormenting mirror pane

that blinds a white knight,

thwarting heroism for

the suffocating breathy voice

of Hyacinth's choking pleads

from your chloronic wake.

and i should be bothered

standing alone on the veranda

strumming the splintered banister

you promised to replace one Saturday

but Saturday elapsed.

no longer humming our dolorous hymn,

i composed a satirical threnody last Saturday,

and it received glowing reviews

and i thought of those shooting stars

betraying us with their dust

but those short-lived trails we lived

burned out and all that comes to mind is

i'm within a matchsticks striking distance.