The old man
With a handlebar mustache
And pipe in his hand
Has asked me
How I’ve been
Every day
Since your absence.
Too chipper to be Death
Too rugged for Hope
He mentions
The pain in my eyes
Lessens each week
And offers a ****
To help me cope.
I explain,
“It’s not the thought of her
That brings me sorrow
But knowing that tomorrow
I’ll be one step closer
To forgetting her laugh
Or how she felt
In my hands.”
He casually says back,
“I don’t think it’s fair
For your heart
On the mend
To relive a love
Abandoned
When she left
With the wind.”
Same time tomorrow
Old friend.
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 6:00 PM UTC
The old man
With a handlebar mustache
And pipe in his hand
Has asked me
How I’ve been
Every day
Since your absence.
Too chipper to be Death
Too rugged for Hope
He mentions
The pain in my eyes
Lessens each week
And offers a ****
To help me cope.
I explain,
“It’s not the thought of her
That brings me sorrow
But knowing that tomorrow
I’ll be one step closer
To forgetting her laugh
Or how she felt
In my hands.”
He casually says back,
“I don’t think it’s fair
For your heart
On the mend
To relive a love
Abandoned
When she left
With the wind.”
Same time tomorrow
Old friend.
We’ll discuss this again, until I feel nothing.