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james-ciriacoPoems
I wanted to call you-- in the wee hour, when only the roach stirs, or the cat light-stepping across some unseen shadow-- my soft quick patter there was no choice, what's one rushed goodbye there would have been a fight let's be mature about this-- I want to say this pragmatism is humiliating it hurts the heart a little a man would hang on the last word from such lips-- but I didn't call, you might be sleeping it's hard for you to sleep on warm nights like this. Instead I sit alone quietly watching my own shadow indistinct, that dark second guess of me thoughts of care and cowardice-- a fine bright line of morning falls there on the floor, from which each moment clearer and more fierce the insects flee.
0
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 8:37 PM UTC
Roach Hour
I wanted to call you-- in the wee hour, when only the roach stirs, or the cat light-stepping across some unseen shadow-- my soft quick patter there was no choice, what's one rushed goodbye there would have been a fight let's be mature about this-- I want to say this pragmatism is humiliating it hurts the heart a little a man would hang on the last word from such lips-- but I didn't call, you might be sleeping it's hard for you to sleep on warm nights like this. Instead I sit alone quietly watching my own shadow indistinct, that dark second guess of me thoughts of care and cowardice-- a fine bright line of morning falls there on the floor, from which each moment clearer and more fierce the insects flee.
james-ciriaco
Written by
james-ciriaco
American
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 8:37 PM UTC
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