30/30 Poem 2

Behind the veil of your memory the distance between
Here and Leaving
felt my hands closing around its neck.

You looked at me like an empty paint bucket
removing its own lid, like a credit card declined on third dates,
couldn’t finish the monochromatic mural colored momentum I’d spilled.
But even if I had anything more to give, it would have been the color
of no surprises and momentum without a body to ride its waves crumbles
like last breaths into movie credits. A dark theater lit only by the names
behind a mask, and Here in my movie, they all spell Leaving.

A film canister holds only an hour or so
of images, which is more time than it takes
to cover walls with my thoughts when I’m careless enough.

I’m sorry for the way the room looked like a road sign going somewhere.
I will scrape out whatever drops are worth saving, put them in a can
looks like a poem. Recycle me dear, hold these tears like promises
to paint something you can stand on. I might just return
something clean, something happy to hold your reflection.