Here I sit, fog-eyed from yesterday's
Wine; the last sounds made still in my
Ears; her laughing at my reply
When she asked why I was getting
Out of bed: "To go jogging," and when
She love-sarcastingly giggled, I
Laughed back: "I love you, but ****
You," and she laughed even more, and
I'll be ****** if that sentence itself
Isn't as much poetry as anything else.
Her, love and I; all three together at
All times, bruising and scratching
And moving in bed, or hand in hand
Asleep on the sofa, still fog-eyed from
Yesterday's wine and having
Had enough of everything the world
Has to offer lovers on a Sunday morning.
Sometimes poetry is the only
Remedy for Life. Sometimes poetry is
The only voice in the world.
The sound of the love between us.
The act of fingertip on touch screen
Etching a moment into cyberstone; quill
Of 2015, chisel of Today.
Sometimes poetry is our newborn;
Love manifested; product of our
Scratched, bruised morning hours.
Are you writing about me, she asks.
I lie.
*No.