These pale nights without you
scatter me like buckshot.
I would be Prometheus,
hero of my ordinary days.
I would wear love as the armor
I learned not to need,
and bring fire
to every corner of this dark.
In truth, I am Sisyphus
on a mountain too familiar,
putting my shoulder to the weight of my fears,
straining beneath the yoke of this gravity:
the same struggle, again
Tasting the salt on my skin,
I pause to consider:
Fiery Prometheus, too, knew suffering.
Chained to that bloody rock, consumed and regenerated:
the same trial, again
And Sisyphus, he carries a weightless gift:
memory, and anticipation.
An eternity of seconds at the summit —
the broadened vision, the flash of clarity,
the cant of courage in aching bone and burning muscle.
He might string those moments like pearls;
he might drape them over Prometheus’ bowed head.
He might say: Brother.