Slick, sticky vinyl is making a sweaty mess of my skin
I think about all these Train Station Men
and how they must look just like my father
After I leave This One I can still feel his hands on me
Just like I can feel the 2 a.m wine session in the living room
Every Tuesday night making dinner together in the kitchen,
Making a ritual out of loving each other in every room
I can scrub my skin until I am bleeding; raw
but
I cannot take his memory from the blueprints of these rooms
I do not know if I can ever live in these four walls
unmoored from the context of us
I try to leave before I am left
And
I do
this time
I am finally crying in a forgettable place
The bus ride is lonely.
Sep 30, 2017
Sep 30, 2017 at 6:34 PM UTC
Slick, sticky vinyl is making a sweaty mess of my skin
I think about all these Train Station Men
and how they must look just like my father
After I leave This One I can still feel his hands on me
Just like I can feel the 2 a.m wine session in the living room
Every Tuesday night making dinner together in the kitchen,
Making a ritual out of loving each other in every room
I can scrub my skin until I am bleeding; raw
but
I cannot take his memory from the blueprints of these rooms
I do not know if I can ever live in these four walls
unmoored from the context of us
I try to leave before I am left
And
I do
this time
I am finally crying in a forgettable place
The bus ride is lonely.
Request permission to use this poem