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Do not make airy promises
like a drunken sailor
On leave for a holiday.


Tell me your secrets
And love the bits of me
That are the least repulsive
For as long as you can.

It is all I ask.
We were never anything
Just friends
But I loved you
And somewhere things got messed up
I hurt you
You hurt me
But my heart was still yours
You captured the real me
And every time your away
I'm here and incomplete
I love you
I want you
As friends
As more
As everything
And I know good-bye was said
Another may be on the way
Just know I don't want to let you go
Another good-bye could break my heart
So just look at me reluctantly
Say my name or a hello
Just stay in my life until we must part
And let me hope that day may never come.
 May 2012 Holly Salvatore
Micah
No keys have turned these locks too far
The clocks, we seized and burned
Erased? Replaced? No…
We’ve just misplaced the time
(not a waste)
Together
To get her
For the fair weather

Lesions learned
Not lessons
And not life
Scars. Burned.
Not bridges
Increase or lessen?
I’m unconcerned

The dreams did matter
It’s the wine glass, shattered on the wall
Ashes, ashes, and in the end we do not fall
Crash and clatter
Hopes and dreams?
The places once redeemed?
Now crooked like these leaves
Deceive, seethe,
Grief and release?

Please to pleasure
But mother **** the fair weather
Fine. I’ll release these ties that bind my
throat and wrist.
And I’ll give you the gist of it all
Ashes, ashes, in the end we fall
Smashed and battered
Hopes and dreams?
What the **** do they matter?
Tattered and torn
Like the wine glass, scattered on the floor
But the door shut when you walked away

But I still miss it all
I’d take the chance, the fall again
Only if I knew

Sundays may be the hardest
But for me it’s every
The envy of the other’s kiss
The other’s fu— I’m sorry… ***
The nights and weekends I reminisce
While you over(?)analyze

Unconditional, yes
As it always will
So long as it’s still free
So long as I can still breathe
And so long as I have these skeleton keys
Your keychain may be empty, but not mine
And your love… life… it may all be lost
but not mine

For I am longing, and I AM with trust
And I do care for the dust

I’ve been burned
I have the scars
But I am no different
I breathe

But not so easily anymore
Remember when life was delivered

from milk right on down to your meat

There'd be people  out delivering groceries

At least two on every side street

If you neglected to pick up an item

Just phone up and talk to the store

A delivery boy would soon bring it

You don't get this service no more

Each house had a door for deliveries

Your milk, cheese and eggs would all fit

If you call up today and said "tab it"

The person you're phoning would ****

Ice was delivered in wagons

Horses pulled them around every town

But, today ony fast food is delivered

And delivery horses aren't  found

Every morning when you'd get your paper

It was delivered as well by a kid

You could smell the fresh bread in the morning

with the glass bottles of milk with gold lids

Remember when life was delivered

It was all a much simpler time

Back when customer service was special

No it's gone and that's just a crime
I think
Therefore, I am
The Frenchman said
But am I a hero
A *******
A do-gooder
A ne'er do well
I know it's up to me
Up to my own volition
To come to that
And it's amazing
How that plays out
In other I ams
Like murderers
Philanthropists
Hoboes
And does God
In some way
Tell us which one to be
He knows me
He is my essence
How could a dark thought come in
Satan is no equal
But it's his hand
That gets the credit
For evil men
But I don't understand
An iota of that
I just do
What my Creator
Put in me to do
And if I hate
Did He put it on my plate
The way to go
Is hard to comprehend
Do I consciously make the choices
I am what I am
But how much of that
Is me
 May 2012 Holly Salvatore
Samuel
sometimes happiness and
I are right
there beside you
and when you turn to
look,
            we get bored and
                              leave
 May 2012 Holly Salvatore
Samuel
a friend
      (to walk beside and ramble with
whose thumbs need warming while
      deciding upon the right path
comfortable to the point of a sweater
      in faintly recalled initial fluster
just in case you don't notice the cliff)
      everyone needs such
a friend
I Know a Jew fish crier down on Maxwell Street with a
voice like a north wind blowing over corn stubble
in January.
He dangles herring before prospective customers evincing
a joy identical with that of Pavlowa dancing.
His face is that of a man terribly glad to be selling fish,
terribly glad that God made fish, and customers to
whom he may call his wares, from a pushcart.
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