I’m tired of this old secret.
It drowned in the endless churning of my
washing-machine mind
long ago, and I hate its smooth, cold corpse,
languishing imperturbably in my unfortunate
dryer of a heart.
I’m too familiar with its satin surface —
the way the top left corner dips in almost imperceptibly,
the corresponding bump underneath,
the different textures (now worn faint
and smooth) that once marked
the subtle variations in shade —
and I’m tired of its constant presence
almost unnoticed
cradled in the palm of my right hand.
I’m tired of it.
And so I step back
and swing
my arm in one great resolute arch.
When,
satisfied,
I turn my back on the distant thud
that marks its far-off landing,
my hands find their way into my pockets.
It is still there,
lying smugly in its bed of grey clinging lint
and empty wrappers.
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 10:01 PM UTC
I’m tired of this old secret.
It drowned in the endless churning of my
washing-machine mind
long ago, and I hate its smooth, cold corpse,
languishing imperturbably in my unfortunate
dryer of a heart.
I’m too familiar with its satin surface —
the way the top left corner dips in almost imperceptibly,
the corresponding bump underneath,
the different textures (now worn faint
and smooth) that once marked
the subtle variations in shade —
and I’m tired of its constant presence
almost unnoticed
cradled in the palm of my right hand.
I’m tired of it.
And so I step back
and swing
my arm in one great resolute arch.
When,
satisfied,
I turn my back on the distant thud
that marks its far-off landing,
my hands find their way into my pockets.
It is still there,
lying smugly in its bed of grey clinging lint
and empty wrappers.