There’s a puddle that reminds me of you.
I’ve become such a regular,
its mud has memorized the contours of my shoes,
right wider than the left, toes turned out.
I imagine my puddle—listen to me, calling it mine—
waits for my eyes to peek over the weeds,
a sweet surprise for a lonely morning.
I step inside. I smile. It smiles back.
I keep it company until the sun runs behind the weeds.
It clings to me in the dark, asking me to stay a little longer.
Long enough for its kisses to soak through my shoes,
to remember how a sole can blister in devotion.
It’s getting late now, my body is cold, my legs are weak.
In a word, we cap another bottle,
A lovely message to nothing and no one,
What’s our valediction but a kiss dying ‘fore my lips?
When I sleep, wrapped in fleece,
my spirit shivers for its touch,
impatient to wake and sink my feet again,
impatient to drown, if I could.
But some mornings are lonelier than others.
Some mornings, I stand dry in the weeds,
watching my puddle smile like it does
for eyes that aren’t mine.
I wonder if tomorrow
my puddle will smile for me again,
while I stand in footprints
two sizes bigger, favoring their heels.
Dec 3, 2019
Dec 3, 2019 at 11:12 PM UTC
There’s a puddle that reminds me of you.
I’ve become such a regular,
its mud has memorized the contours of my shoes,
right wider than the left, toes turned out.
I imagine my puddle—listen to me, calling it mine—
waits for my eyes to peek over the weeds,
a sweet surprise for a lonely morning.
I step inside. I smile. It smiles back.
I keep it company until the sun runs behind the weeds.
It clings to me in the dark, asking me to stay a little longer.
Long enough for its kisses to soak through my shoes,
to remember how a sole can blister in devotion.
It’s getting late now, my body is cold, my legs are weak.
In a word, we cap another bottle,
A lovely message to nothing and no one,
What’s our valediction but a kiss dying ‘fore my lips?
When I sleep, wrapped in fleece,
my spirit shivers for its touch,
impatient to wake and sink my feet again,
impatient to drown, if I could.
But some mornings are lonelier than others.
Some mornings, I stand dry in the weeds,
watching my puddle smile like it does
for eyes that aren’t mine.
I wonder if tomorrow
my puddle will smile for me again,
while I stand in footprints
two sizes bigger, favoring their heels.
If my puddle pretends not to notice, must I?