Pushed to the back of the fridge
Styrafoams full of predictions
Of life after your childish ambitions
played out.

Carried home from a family occasion
The ideas molded
Over the ages of a chilly
Adolescence.

Now each morning
hits like a punch in the mouth,
The sour taste of last nights
Forgetfulness
Heavy on your breath.


it's always too early
To stomach the sun.
Returning to lost love
With only poison in your gut;
It's getting easier to move on.

Continue along
Hanging from a precarious
Cable car of ambivalence
Wave at each opportunity missed
As it passes you by,
your eyes
Idly on the sky.

"Next time, next time"
You mutter

"Next time I'll give it a try."

C.e.M.
2.17.15