i sat in the rocking chair
in front of the window
expecting a long night.
"a broken nose and a broken heart,"
i whisper.
"and 2 black eyes,"
the moon tells me.
"she gives that smile,"
i tell the moon,
"i don't know
what it is
that little upturn
in the corners
of her mouth
no
maybe,
no
that isn't all of it,
a part,
maybe,
and her dark eyes
bright
like a streak of lightening
across a thunder clouded sky
beautiful and dangerous
and in a second,
gone and"
"funny,
what a man is willing
to die for, "interrupts the moon,
pauses
and then," love
is when the damsel
shoots
the werewolf
with a silver bullet
holds his hairy paw
and looks into his
wolf eyes
and as the wolfman slowly
is turning human
the man
returns that love
you can see it in his blue eyes.
now,
that's, TRUE LOVE."
i put a cold can of beer
on a book of Neruda
love poems
a sacrilege
i know
so i kneel down
and pray
she will read this poem
i'm writing
and it will take her
to some
distant flowered field
but...
the poem never finished.
the letter never sent.
so i'm talking to the moon.
Nov 11, 2023
Nov 11, 2023 at 3:02 PM UTC
i sat in the rocking chair
in front of the window
expecting a long night.
"a broken nose and a broken heart,"
i whisper.
"and 2 black eyes,"
the moon tells me.
"she gives that smile,"
i tell the moon,
"i don't know
what it is
that little upturn
in the corners
of her mouth
no
maybe,
no
that isn't all of it,
a part,
maybe,
and her dark eyes
bright
like a streak of lightening
across a thunder clouded sky
beautiful and dangerous
and in a second,
gone and"
"funny,
what a man is willing
to die for, "interrupts the moon,
pauses
and then," love
is when the damsel
shoots
the werewolf
with a silver bullet
holds his hairy paw
and looks into his
wolf eyes
and as the wolfman slowly
is turning human
the man
returns that love
you can see it in his blue eyes.
now,
that's, TRUE LOVE."
i put a cold can of beer
on a book of Neruda
love poems
a sacrilege
i know
so i kneel down
and pray
she will read this poem
i'm writing
and it will take her
to some
distant flowered field
but...
the poem never finished.
the letter never sent.
so i'm talking to the moon.
