1095

A Poem

By Veli Mnisi

I’ve known you for about 1095 days.
And I remember warning you that it would be over soon,
Almost as quickly as it began.                                                                                                                 

I’ve known you 1095 days; far too briefly to be thinking anything I am thinking.
I barely recall any of them.
3 or 4 hooked into my ankles and will not let me leave the memory of you.
Another 7 or 8 have me by the wrists and will not leave me be.                                                            
The rest of those days (+-1073) have all blurred and liquefied into one another to form the most perverse
colours and textures I have ever experienced.
Because days like these deserve to be remembered and venerated.                                                                                                                              

But you won’t remember them, and I am ashamed to admit that I have been doing it since long before 1095,
or 730 or 365.
I tried to drink as many of them down as possible, but was left with the taste of 1818 Pineapple Vodka, and
another mixture of burning drinks I can only pronounce inebriated, speaking in tongues. And it all made
me feel sick to my stomach.
But they say absinthe makes the heart grow fonder.
And this is my Holy Spirit.                                                                                                               

Now the days have gone bigger and beyond all drinking.
They’ve filled the room, and I am damp and suspended high enough to kiss the ceiling, careful enough not to lose a vital organ to the spinning fan.
They crack my windows and my walls, and the murky water that you once said resembled my eyes
finds release.                                                                                                                                   

The days are now every breath that leaves my chest, tornadoes that kick up pieces of paper (because I have never been organised) lined with reasons you could no longer stand me.
When the paper ran out, as it tended to, I took to scribbling you on my skin, into all my pores.      
I wrote you from the tip of my tongue, to the back of my throat. I must take care when I keep you in my prayers now.
We all know how God is a raging, unrelenting, unforgiving
Plagiarist.                                               

And you might have fallen far behind on our way to 1095, but that’s fine. I’ll run up ahead and tell
you if I see the sun, in which case you must run.
We know you don’t fare well in the light.