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I was immediately drawn to her.

She looked like you--if you hadn't come from a good family that is.  Inked from head to toe, and not the ink of someone whose identity is wrapped up in how others see them, but in a desperate attempt to express themselves to the world.

The same hips, the same nape, the same thighs, the same eyes..

No.

The eyes were different.

There were no pretensions or Self-Righteous *******.  There was no desire to use everyone around her until they were used up

She simply existed, and it was beautiful.

We were better lovers, better partners, and better friends than you ever allowed us to be.

She never yelled at me for expressing my opinion, or talking about why I might be upset.  She listened, and considered, and talked.

In the end, it didn't last

Because

She looked like you.

Because

I allowed you to break me

Again.
promised rendezvous with your
       *** held as a carrot in front
of my wanting
       pelvis it was only later that
i realized the taste of you on my
       chin was tainted with
the stains of a
       dozen
other
       lovers who all believed that

you moaned only for them
she hides her sadness with
chemicals and the next

John

Doe

between her thighs and her
painted smile

evidence of last night stained
on the
sheets she wears around

her atrophied heart

as she carves another vaporous hash
mark on the last available
patch of

bare
skin
Read the three part discussion on Sadness here:

https://hellopoetry.com/collection/31132/sadness/
he hides his sadness
with photographs and

another rickety lie

to himself about sepia memories
of sad days he thinks were
better ones

the evidence of last nights tears
stains on the sheets he
wears wrapped around

his bruised, choking heart
beats relentlessly as he scrawls

another loving hash mark
into a never ending

patch
of
skin
Read the three part discussion on Sadness here:

https://hellopoetry.com/collection/31132/sadness/
Glancing down at the hole in his chest
he realizes he knew it was hurricane season
he just thought he was impervious to her winds

again.
The history of us is scarred into the topography of our sleepy little town

You know the one that has delusions of grandeur.

Hidden places where we learned the ins and outs of each other in a way that only new lovers can.

I've been traveling this sleepy little town again and the thing I've come to realize is this:

I used to come to these places to feel close to you.

The concrete abutment on the edge of a man made lake

The ruined foundation of an old restaurant

The stone table where we sat in the dark and I reminded you that some things didn't need to be photographed

You laughed at this but I came back and took a picture anyway.

Now they're just places,
waiting on

another idealistic young couple

whose whispers echo

. . .always and forever. . .

When forever is really just the next distraction away.
I see you.
 
Lying there just a few
feet from me, the
malaphor of us, derisive, mocking,
screaming at me from
the air above our heads,
the same air that lies heavy

pregnant

with all of the things we've
said to each other in this room

but you
don't see this

I glance at the curve of your hip
I question my resolve
I check and recheck my mental
list of how far I'm willing to
compromise and if it would be worth it

but you
don't feel this

I kissed your forehead, you took my hand;

you wouldn't let go.  I sat there and
gently caressed your arm, wanting only
to hold you, but you have poisoned
yourself tonight and it would be wrong.

You fell asleep, and still held on to my hand.

I sat with you a moment longer, smiling and silently weeping at the same time.

You wouldn't let me leave yet again,
even in your sleep.

In the light we can be seen.

The darkness is safe, so I still hold your hand.

This is a love song;

This is a requiem.
Insomnia and anxiety are leading me on this particular journey.  Feel free to give all the criticism you'd like.  I am out of practice, hell I'm not even sure why I am doing this.
sweat and smoke obscured
photographs color my memories of the
fleece blanket where you

****** me

as the heavens exploded above us

the burrs that won't wash out no
matter how many times i
try

they stab me to remind me of what I've always known. 

The things we love **** us all eventually.
07/03/2016
they hide their sadness differently
each filling their emptiness with

never ending
waves of poor choices and
escalating consequences

he will never find relief in memories
of better times of kind words of moments shared under the moon on a hill where time and again they danced in and out of each other

she will never find relief in a bottle or a twisted piece of cellophane chasing the ghost of better times of kind words of moments shared when their souls and bodies were bare and there were no conceits or pretensions or sarcasms

of a time when they were the world

and the world was them

so they continue to chase
their relief in the wrong directions

when they both know that the
solution is asking to be found

So instead they'll forever carve each other's
names into their

very last

bare

inch of bone
Read the three part discussion on Sadness here:

https://hellopoetry.com/collection/31132/sadness/
i had a broken toy box full of broken toys

flotsam and jetsam of a childhood
filled with playthings shattered and forgotten

in later years I would open that dusty
chest filled with dusty remnants of happier times and weep
for the friends I had left behind

shattered chunks of preformed plastic that
kept me safe when
barely out of diapers my Nuclear Family went

nuclear

lead paint and lawn darts
loose pieces and lost innocence

i learned the value of love through
spending time with cast off friends

i learned the value of respect through
seeing the pieces of the stickers that I
tore off my spider-man helicopter immediately

after

my mother and father in their last
act of love as a couple spent hours
placing them exactly as

instructed

i did not learn that one day i would
be a dusty old cast off toy in someone elses
box of broken pieces

in that world
toys are replaced before their

time

broken not by love and use but by throwing
them against the wall in a tantrum looking for
the next

shiny

new

thing
A discourse on our childhood playthings and how they affect our adult relationships.
whisky no longer held an
     escape everywhere it would take
him he found her there wrapped
     in a ***** sheet waiting for

          him
Written in response to a poetry prompt on Twitter from @_sense_wrds

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