When I was little,
I use to refer to him as
the monster.
A brow raised to a soul
in words inscribed upon
crumpled up ears
With vows made
but forgotten in a jacket pocket.
I stumbled upon my own sentence
on a rainy night
when it fell out of my chest.
As women shush their children
and men turn their backs,
I trail off to the crash of lyrics
on the railroad tracks
And the flight of the piano
that doesn't bring back mistakes.
Nothing more needed
but the shiver felt throughout
As my heels hit the cracks.
I return to that smoke scared voice
that plays with my heart.
A shiver upon my spine
One more time,
Tom Waits.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 10:32 PM UTC
The lingering smell of hummingbirds
wet with rotten cigarette butts
travels faster than I.
As words roll off my tongue
into the water,
she is silent.
I listen,
over contemplating,
analyzing my lack of
sense.
I listen,
the buzz of repent for words spoken
too soon
mimics the fallen leaves
who suddenly brown
as they hit the ground.
For some reason,
she still provides me
a seat in the present tense
And with this last warmth
and my final sense of sight,
I am relieved.
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 12:37 AM UTC