Medicine

The wood is lush and dappled with light, 

the first April flowers poking out of the ground, snow

melting under my bare feet. 

The ache of you digs into my chest like a sharpened blade,

but I try to push past it, 

try to force away this rotten pain.

I've had too much of it,

and it isn't mine to have.

Your wife is under your covers,

mind swimming, sleeping away the pills,

while you sit in a golden room, praying,

so I pray too, into the trees.

I listen for the heavy crunch of bears against the carpet of leaves,

I hunt for a glimmer of a lake beyond the dense canopy.

A forest is a memory-snatcher--

for just a second I forget about her

and about you,

and the endless days underneath an azure sky when I thought you would be mine.

When I thought (or hoped, or prayed)

that it would be me in that white dress, lavender

perfume clinging to my body like a second skin--

even though I knew you loved her. I knew

I couldn't compare to her golden radiance

that is now dulling, folding into itself, curling at the edges,

after long days in cold white rooms,

the apologetic faces of doctors, talking to her, talking to you,

We regret to inform you...

and she no longer sings arias, you told me, her syrupy voice

no longer echoes down the hall,

so I'll come home from the forest with my heart heavy

while you send her a text reminding her

about her medicine.