the *** needs stirring,
the stitches have been
removed, or melted,
and the scars fainter,
daily…but, my words
have been clogged,
swallowing difficult,
and heartbreak is
non-curable and
the sad songs
combine the exercise
of crying and dying,
you can feel it piecemeal,
chips of you breakaway,
and you are just lessened…
all the variations of less,
redound cross my lips, but
there is no one here, no one
in my life…and yes he’s gone,
the one who lived faraway
but was intrepid in his love,
and solid in his affection,
but ardor cooled, distance
intervened, but I still have
that short skirt he adored
and close eyed images in
my cerebral cortex, and how
I wish someone would write
a poem
exclusively for me, selfishly,
and my mom calls less frequently,
she,
doesn’t know new words
to instigate healing, to break
me open and let positivity
return…butI having learned
much,
and my selective mode
is different, crap it’s true,
been made over into a sad sack,
incurable romantic…and that
part tarnished is the only part
of me that is growing by leaps
and winks and sighs and…
makes
the sadbad move aside…perhaps,
you’ll write me a poem, soothing,
gel cooling, and… no mas…