I lived in a metaphorical house for a while,
called it love and locked the door.
Now, the ghosts leave cold tea and trinkets in the corners of rooms and
memories layer like soot
from a drafty floo; a mid-winter affair with history.
I wander barefoot to disturb the accumulating sorrow,
To stir it into the air and hope for gentlemen callers
like the broken man I’ve tried to find new warmth in.
He is broken where I am bent,
and I am bent most places.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 1:42 AM UTC
I lived in a metaphorical house for a while,
called it love and locked the door.
Now, the ghosts leave cold tea and trinkets in the corners of rooms and
memories layer like soot
from a drafty floo; a mid-winter affair with history.
I wander barefoot to disturb the accumulating sorrow,
To stir it into the air and hope for gentlemen callers
like the broken man I’ve tried to find new warmth in.
He is broken where I am bent,
and I am bent most places.
For about two years, my ability/courage to write has suffered. Pieces (like this one) slipped out almost in spite of me. This and a lot of what you'll be seeing from me in the near future will tell stories of love and heartbreak, because I guess I need to write those things down eventually.
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