"ruefully" poems
If wishes
Were fishes
That swam in the sea
Where on earth would we be?
Stood onshore
Ever more
Looking ruefully,
Longingly, out to sea?
Would we be
All at sea,
With nothing to do
To make wishes come true?
Or maybe
We could be
All out on the sea
Fishing furiously?
For wishes,
Like fishes,
Are within our reach,
If we work hard for each.
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 8:35 AM UTC
The casket was coming up, swaying and wobbling
Like a novice skater’s layover spin,
The workings proceeding apace,
The stillness of the August heat
Punctuated by disinterested growl of the backhoe,
The occasional out-of-place jocularity by the excavators
The creaky jingle of the chains holding the muddied box
As it proceeded skyward in its clumsy poor-man’s Resurrection.
The affair was being observed by an elderly couple,
Old enough to be of no particular age.
Their car had Carolina plates,
But their inflections, their casually-tossed idioms
They noted that ruefully The grass needs mowed)
Marked them as natives.
They’d returned (Last time, most likely,
The wife uttered mournfully)
To take their son with them; he’d drowned when was five? six?
(The years will do that to a body, apparently)
In Kinzua Creek some half-century ago,
Back when little boys weren’t under a mandate
To be safe from themselves, as it were.
He was our boy! We’ve never forgotten him!
The old man said, the words snapping off
In a manner that spoke of something else altogether,
How the whistle at the Montmorenci
Went off at three and eleven for second shift,
And your *** had better be there,
As those were good jobs that didn’t wait for bereavement leave,
Because there was always someone
Just itching to take your spot on the line,
And anyway life went on,
At least in the sense that television screens went all to snow
And tires went flat and fuses blew
And eventually a dead child
Is not always in the forefront of your thoughts,
Only tiptoeing in when the Press ran a picture
Of the Montmorenci Area Class of whenever,
Or there was an item about some other family
Who opened their front door
To a grim sheriff’s deputy with his hat in his hand.
Eventually, after some time
And in defiance of both the odds and gravity,
The casket was settled into the back
Of the undertaker’s huge old black Caddy,
And the couple cane-toddled back to their car,
Following out the through the old spider-like gates
And onto the main road.
The brief procession fading from sight,
Until there was nothing left to see
Save the hillsides covered in old growth pine.
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 11:00 AM UTC
tattoo ourselves in electric ink memorializing calendars,
diaries of observantional digits, black on white, no gray,
birthdays, anniversaries, dates of passing, starting lines,
occasional achievements, departure dates, even glaring failures,
sundial mundane records of diurnal habitude…even
defining self by, bye, byte marks upon flesh, upon our calendar
*not my first trip-tracking, he ruefully rues, wry smiling,
many voyages of indeterminate measuring length,
leaving litter of arrays of hopeful estimations & destinations,
each unequal, any or all possibilities, each day notated,
without critique or commentary, the numbers are the
gaols (jails) of goals, target, indeterminate determination,
terrific, horrific, introspections, inverse images resolve, resolute*
a year ago, +/- a few days,, new travelogue commenced,
notated but not annotated, just numerical truths,
(sans comments for the divine nature of numbers don’t lie)
and today my calculator app informs, that I am now
19.4 % lesser, but that clarifies less than expected
naturally this provokes a natty,
spirited, self-inquiry, lessened,
lessor, for better or for worse?
have the physical alterations
accompanying this reduction
mean exactly what,
if, it should be, a greater lesser?
here is the hard part.
your have always been a mirror~poet,
laughing, bemoaning the unvarnished, unshaven
AM sightings of a human perpetual dissatisfied,
the external never denying the interior “less~than,”
a J Peterman catalogue of weathered ****** expressions,
counter-parted by multiple Venn diagram intersections,
of experiential labeled bits & pieces of emotional empirical
less than good, not even close to perfect, so now that I am
*gaunt, spare, lean, grayed, narrower, again ruefully rue,
the even more visible truth reflection eye~hidden:*
I,
am the sum of the weight of my history, my deeds,
my disbeliefs, murderous deeds, weak choices
and that hasn’t changed nary an ounce, no matter
many times examined, indeed I am forever a lesser man,
there, internal infernal
too…
Apr 9, 2023
Apr 9, 2023 at 2:12 PM UTC
Acerbic antagonist alliterates agonizing accusations,
blasting ******* backbiter butting beautiful bombastic brainy blond bomb.
Cumulative cranial casualties cease caveman's cognitive coherence.
Doom digger derides Daddy's dangling dire dreary ****
Eclectic esoteric eccentric egotistical estranger;
Forthcoming fathoms fetch faithless fleeting father.
God given goblins gather gossamer ganglions;
Hell's hairy harlot harpies hover heeding Hyperion.
Ignatius imbibes irrevocably insisting,
"Jesus juggles justice's joy jarring jams."
Kindness kindles Kilimanjaro;
Malicious mountains melt, Mmm, morning marjoram.
Nothing negates Neanderthal ninnying.
Overt obsessions obfuscate original object of
purest passions, paltry past pinings,
quickly quieted, quelled,
resisted, relinquished, readily, ruefully, roundly
saturated, suffocated; surreptitiously silenced,
terribly torturing the thrashed tamed tormentor:
Ugly, ungrateful, unapologetic,
Vanity,
woefully wallowing, wailing, "Where's
Xanadu's
zeitgeist!?"
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 12:09 AM UTC
When Charlie was a young'un with a crayon and some paper
He would scribble til the paper ripped and the crayon turned to vapour
His mother would console him and she'd offer her advice
But just to drive the message home, she'd loudly sing it twice
Follow the lines, my boy, just follow the bleedin' lines
Just pick a side and stay there, always follow the lines
If you're not a fool then fake it
If you show your spine they'll break it
Follow the lines, follow the lines, follow the lines
So when Charlie went to high school, how he tried to walk in stride
But the boredom of geometry provoked his naughty side
His professor would chastise him with a ruler and a cane
And, as an aid to memory, he sang him twice again
Follow the lines, young Charlie, you follow the blasted lines
Give it a try, you'll soon see, never cross over the lines
Don't be smart or play the joker
Aim for mainly mediocre
Follow the lines, follow the lines, follow the lines
When assembling a wardrobe with his Allen key and spanner
He threw himself into his task in an overzealous manner
So when he called his father to report a broken bone
His old man tutted ruefully and sang right down the phone
Follow the lines now Charlie, just follow the ******* lines
Don't improvise or gamble, why didn't you follow the lines
Dodge unnecessary ructions
And adhere to the instructions
Follow the lines, follow the lines, follow the lines
So in time, he raised a family, the lines etched in his head
One day he heard a buzzing from his aging garden shed
As he listened at the planking, how his face was drawn and long
For between the buzz and rustle, squeaked a tiny little song
Follow the lines, buzz-buzz, just follow the buzz-ing lines
Follow the bee before you, just buzz and follow the lines
Find the flowers when it's sunny
Fetch the nectar, make the honey
Follow the lines, follow the lines, follow the lines
Buzz buzz
**
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 10:09 AM UTC
“every one shall sit in safety under his own vine and fig tree and there shall be none to make him afraid.”
Letter from George Washington, 1790, to the Jewish community of Newport, Rhode Island
<•>
multiple motifs present poesy alternatives,
but one supremes
safety in your own chosen orchard,
supping on clear water, wine and figs
children of trees, nurtured by one’s own hands,
children of your children, running the grove,
shouting out in sweet safety
the wasps happy shameless pollinate,
dreaming of more generations,
ruefully smiling, thinking of
Adam and Eve, who ashamed of
their apple’d sexuality,
hid their nakedness of course beneath
the safety of
fig leaves
you do not pray for safety
you do not ask for anything,
nothing to fear says the father,
for you already live in our own
George’s garden of eden
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 1:37 PM UTC
"Mother?" Say the child to it's mom.
"Where, oh where, does the platypus come from?"
The woman smiled, and laughed,
and she told the story of where the platypus did come from.
To her sweet, darling, little one.
Once upon a time, there was a duck. And the duck was alone in the forest, because its family had grown up much too much. So the duck went to look for someone, to make his own little family with. The duck just wanted a place to belong, you see.
So the duck went to the lioness and said 'Miss would you like to make a family with me?' But the lioness was proud and scornful, and turned the duck away.
The duck was sad, of course, but he was much more saddened to think that he'd be alone. So he kept on going until he found a deer. But when he asked the deer, she ruefully claimed she already had a family. And that there was no place for a little duck.
So off he went.
He asked a spider, but the spider had a home.
He asked a walrus, but the walrus couldn't be bothered.
He asked a cat, but the cat just laughed.
It came to a time when the duck had asked just about everyone in the forest if they would love him. But right as he was about to give up he came across a stream, and in there a beautiful little otter was there waiting for him.
'Oh wow... uh' the nervous duck said, 'What are you doing there?'
'I'm looking for a way to make a home,' She said, 'I've been looking all day because I'm all alone and quite lonely.'
The duck swaddled and gleefully said.
'Well I don't know if you'll have me, but if there's no one better, you can take me in your stead?'
'But otters and ducks don't go together,' The otter complained.
'And why not? You're a little better under water and I'm a bit better on land. I think we could make a good team!'
'The forest will never accept us,' she continued, but--
'Will you?' The duck interjoined.
The otter sat there puzzled for a moment, and simply said,
'I'll try.'
"And it wasn't easy, my dearest little one. Love never is. It springs up in unexpected ways, and finds you caught unawares. You may find your love in a place you never would have thunk. But it is out there, if you're willing to search for it. I promise you that much."
"But... wait, mom! Where did the platypus come from?"
"Ah. Of course. The duck and the otter went on to have many children, a platypus each and every one. The result of their love was the perfect child, someone who could combine the best of them, and someone who could finally make them a home."
"Wow... mom, that is amazing! I wish I could be a platypus!"
"Hmm? But didn't you know, little one? The otter in that story is me, and you're my perfect little platypus who gave us our lovely little home."
The Mother embraced her child,
as the duck watched at the door, happily forlorn.
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 4:43 AM UTC
some of us walk insistently,
instinctively, and instantly to
and upon the edged path,
this physical nexus & abstract mental locus,
a cliffside enticing rock strewn trail,
drawn of men, by men, for men
(yes, men are people too, still)
enthralling views,
down to the riverside,
where eyes intuit the
beauteous aroma of
precious precocious
precarious precipices
and the near-stench of
mortality
amidst
wafting scents of inane undesirable need,
hints of destruction, or,
alternating eager relief,
like a ****** infused, instant attractiveness,
making weakness in the knees, all too real,
trembling with a delicious accented edge of
a fresh, familiar scent, fresh baked bread,
an all enveloping consumption need now!
to
crave what we fear,
to fear what we crave
our cravings are craven,
this twisted sense, annuls
our common sensibility, yet,
titillates our pleasured imagined relief,
releases, our unsated, even better,
our insatiable curiosity to tremble,
an entire body enjoined by vibrato~
enticing tremulations, shaken and stirred,
this danger choice releases something primordial,
escape? a reckless wrecking so deeply designed,
it has its very own designation…death wish
multitudes of easy choices afforded my senses,
and by accident, all mine chosen, all nearby,
I travel the esplanade près de the East River,
where even if calm is the sole visiblilty,
undercurrents and the unpredictable passage
of container wakes and the larger freighters
will hand you down, so easy, to become parcel
to a littered river bottom of centuries’ artifacts
but even more tempting, the balcony,
a hop, skip and a jump unlocked,
mere ten steps, no need for a running start
why it’s the “height of convenience,”
he ruefully winces, and not even any
TSA lines or inconveniencing “conveniences”
Why this calamity seems so desperately desirable,
Why this unabrogated feat so featured, nay, even
feted in our hot? cold? bloodstream
“Why just men?
*I don't know,
Perhaps,
it is all I know.*”
Dec 5, 2023
Dec 5, 2023 at 5:42 PM UTC
Nestled in a pencil case
And snuggled up in fluff
There snoozed a tiny pirate man
Of legendary stuff
He'd spied the hidden secrets
And trod the haunted shore
Blu-tack Beard the buccaneer
Scourge of the open floor
He stole a shoe-box galleon
And sailed the carpet blue
With pencil mast and paper sails
And crayons as his crew
They forayed on the crooked tiles
And crested every ridge
Blu-tack Beard the scallywag
The raider of the fridge
When moored up in the kitchen
With all his crew around
The captain showed to one and all
A treasure map he'd found
It bore a chart of distant parts
And quite a course it plot
It pointed to the bathroom lands
And tip-ex marked the spot
They crammed the hold with cornflakes
To feed them on their trip
They pulled hard on the piece of string
And weighed the paperclip
The crew they dragged their boat aloft
On neatly woven hairs
Blu-tack Beard the privateer
Surmounter of the stairs
They heaved their vessel restlessly
Atop the final brow
The crayon pirates caught their breath
And leaned against her bow
Then scaled tiny ladders
And each took to their post
Blu-tack Beard was at the helm
And watched the foreign coast
Through countless minutes voyaging
There loomed the bathroom door
They slacked the sail and went below
And each took to an oar
They pulled a mighty rhythm
Till their waxy arms were numb
And Blu-tack Beard the plunderer
Was beater of the drum
But though they pried in every nook
And each last inch of grout
They skirted round the skirting board
They tapped each silver spout
Illusive was their bounty
And they grew ever the crueller
They took their skipper angrily
And made him walk the ruler
He landed glum and ruefully
Amid the ***** socks
He heard the merry spiteful sound
Of laughing, taunting mocks
And saw the sight of mutiny
With waxen little smiles
Blu-tack Beard the cast-away
Alone among the tiles
He commandeered a washing cloth
And weaved himself a rope
He scaled the dreaded washstand
And stole a bar of soap
He carved himself a coracle
And set his sights on home
Blu-tack Beard the wanderer
Awash amid the foam
He slithered down the stairwell
And landed with a plan
For warmer climes and restfulness
A cocktail and a tan
And so he met his final port
Right then did he retire
Blu-tack Beard the pensioner
Of the warm spot near the fire
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 4:33 PM UTC
Receiving and reflecting
on revolting reassurances.
You reason with me
"I'm right",
ranting on about your righteous
wrongs.
Ruefully agreeing to you,
an overrated relationship
rescued by agreeance.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 3:44 PM UTC
A mist blanketed the forest,
so low and dense we could barely see
through it, but we kept on digging
the hole. We had no other choice,
and there was nowhere else to go.
The onyx lake pebbly beach
intimate boat cheap beer
and jokes loud motor running
The smell of earth and petrichor
dispersed her rancid miasma.
I felt ruefully relieved, but
the hole was almost complete.
Tiny eyes peered at us through
the dark, through the leaves,
from the trees, but not a chirp
or tweet was aired. They remained
silent as we did our deed.
The wet street we came in on
truck cabin nail gun hidden
in the cooler her stupidly
wonderful laugh
awful moonlight
It was finished. We climbed out,
and I grasped her ankles. We
swung her and let go. The wind
passed through with a low groan.
Burble gracious grin
looking up at the stars
snap yelp the start of a cry
another snap of air escaping
swollen tongue
widened eyes
The putrid miasma disappeared,
buried along with everything
else. And then we left. The sun
crept out from behind the
mountains as we walked away.
The birds began their daily dance.
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 11:08 PM UTC
I could not vote for you
My heart was with the lame
Pretty maids in open frocks
I could not but fuel pain.
So in shocked surprise my vote
Was cast ruefully
And where perfection danced
My vote ran away.
Love Mary ***
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 12:04 PM UTC
it's alluring, addicting, and ruefully suffering,
in agony we find comfort; a dishonest one,
we're fooled; yet we take the pleasure in,
a life of skin deep—superficial at its finest,
indeed we are our own shapeshifter; conceal the outrage in a painful way,
swallow the happy little pill for a bitter escape.
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 10:09 AM UTC
He’d been close to the big time,
If not a god of the fight game, perhaps a demigod;
He’d been possessed of considerable brute strength
And the ability to shut out concern for the well-being of others,
But there had been the odd ***** in his armor:
An overhand right which announced itself too early,
And arrived just a smidgen too late,
Plus an unhappy tendency to lose focus,
To stray from those plans his corner had set up chapter and verse,
Choosing the forbidden fruit of the quick knockout.
He had, after losing a bout to a top-ranked fighter
(He was eighth in the world, he would chuckle ruefully,
And I fought him like I was eight years old.)
Decided to chuck it all in,
Enrolling in a scruffy little bible college
Sitting just off an interstate on-ramp,
Cheek-to-jowl with a Wendy’s and 7-11,
In order to facilitate the transition from mayhem to ministry.
He’d soured on the process in fairly short order;
He understood instinctually that he, like all men,
Was a sinner, and likely unworthy of salvation,
And the faculty accentuated the notion daily, if not hourly,
Like so many jabs to the midsection.
He’d inquired, gently, as to the approach one should take
To addressing the worrisome paradox
That all men were imperfect beings
Marooned on an imperfect world,
Yet their fallibility was all they had to build on,
(A rickety ladder to scramble upwards, for sure,
But the only way to reach that golden fruit
Held out for him, though just beyond his grasp.)
The responses varied, from sputtering and vague parries
To the suggestion that such notions were heresy,
And so he’d returned to the club-and-casino circuit
Makin’ the best use of the gifts I have, he would sigh,
Before heading out once more,
Hoping there was one more short right at least one more time.
Jul 5, 2018
Jul 5, 2018 at 4:11 PM UTC
Awkward astronomer-lover.
Your nebulae concept:
The universe drawing together,
A delighted animation.
We ruefully laughed onshore,
That profound abstruse oxygen.
Their unappetizing myopia,
Misguided eye sockets.
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 1:15 AM UTC
And so
There you were. I saw you last night, you were unapologetically **** Common and so uncommon, and said to come in.
And so
I did just that. I saw you last night,
You were ruefully majestic, and you were glowing. I don’t want to say glowing, actually. I don’t like that adjective and it’s over romanticized; but there was light about you.
And so you stood up, and I held still
And so I saw the whole of you, every last bit.
And we let stark grey November light spill into us, into the room. Not our room, just yours.
I was gawking and I felt subtle shame stain my heart.
And in that moment I decided not to feel that way anymore, ever again. And I wished for just a second that I could call you my own, or a part of me at any rate.
My head came down. The bluebird peaked his head out. Yes, he is still in there. Chuck doesn’t weep. I’m not like Chuck.
Nov 21, 2018
Nov 21, 2018 at 11:06 AM UTC
Dearest,
All those days,
I let you tread over me and gave you a place to stand,
and you with your untrained, weak bladder dog,
your clumsiness,
your laziness,
your unwashed clothes,
your ***** shoes and smelly feet,
stepped on my trust.
I hope you get pricked by the scraps of food,
bleed out with a paper cut
and stumble on my torn out, roughened edges
and I get to smother and roll up your inanimate, dead body
to it's rightful place.
Ruefully, yours.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 12:04 AM UTC
To be left a rotting corpse in the inky depths of my screaming, vacant soul
To taste the freshness of the air only to have it ripped so unnaturally from my shriveling lungs
Once sitting atop that merciful beacon of hope,
I find myself tumbling, grasping, gasping, clasping for some hold onto the beautiful signal
And who is to blame?
Who?
Certainly not you, for it was your hand who found me troubled in the merciless murky vapor
Your hand that lifted me from the bowels of hell and so dotingly destroyed my detriments
But had it not been for you I would have so happily, so cheerfully accepted my vacant vocation
Of restlessly, recklessly, ruefully running around without any remorse for my forlorn reality
For it is not the force of you freedom that loosed my heavy chains, but rather the form
That vicious vigor that stuffed my spirit with a seemingly ceaseless, incessant self-assurance
But for my essence to not identify isolation, to not recognize regret seems so conceited in comparison to yours
Which is ever growing, ever loving, ever laughing, ever knowing, ever telling, ever asking, ever showing, ever…
After all it was your being there that showed me how lonely I truly was, how pitiful of an existence I truly led
So now I state the obvious
Why?
Why go through all that endeavor, all that effort of effectively and essentially helping me escape my insanity just to throw it out the
Door is where you went, leaving me to collect the shambles and shards that was the life you made
Leaving me to collect these silly splinters just so that you could prove a point
A point well taken, a point notably noted, and a point you called no return
Return?
Return from what?
From the friendship promised, or the friendship broken, or the new twisted friends of which you’ve hardly spoken?
And so I take my leave, but I will return
I will not leave such a dear thing to burn
Burn in the essence of what we call hope
For, after all, you were the one who threw me the rope
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 4:19 AM UTC
purple silhouettes in skies tinged and
minutely poisoned music while
rhapsody blended slowly across
forever ruefully contemplated
dreams of hope
and love beneath concealed
insanity
concealed beneath love and
hope of dreams
contemplated ruefully forever
across slowly blended rhapsody
while music poisoned minutely
and tinged skies in silhouettes purple
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 3:13 PM UTC
for what it's worth,
all this work will be forgotten by sunday.
for what it's worth,
my accomplishments will be forgotten by sunday.
for what it's worth,
all my ambition and drive will be forgotten by sunday.
for what it's worth,
i hope they will remember on monday.
however,
my ambition and drive might burn itself out,
but i'll just blow on it and stoke the flame
it'll set the entire world on fire
taking it by storm, hurricane after hurricane,
until the ash settles and the water recedes,
and a single snowflake settles on the tip of my nose.
(and then melts immediately afterward)
that snowflake'll turn into a raging blizzard
screaming my name until the cold snap is over
and the world is covered with the glaciate, bruised feathers
of birds once in flight
i'll kick up my feet on my frozen desk, blow the smoke
from the crumbling shell that once was my determination
and smile ruefully and the world i first took over and then destroyed
Jan 29, 2021
Jan 29, 2021 at 2:41 PM UTC
WRITING BAREFOOT
Being frisked
at Dublin airport.
"What's dat in yer
back pocket?"
"An unfinished poem!"
I admit ruefully.
"Is it metal?"
he asks.
"No, it's mental!"
I tell him.
"You know, a bunch of words
hanging about on a piece of paper."
"Go on with ya!"
he smirks.
"And next time...
remove yer shoes."
On the plane I
kick off my shoes and
finish off the unfinished
poem.
Now I
always write barefoot.
Oct 24, 2018
Oct 24, 2018 at 1:50 PM UTC
We would mark our places-
Our flower shop,
Our cheesecake,
Our café,
Our frozen yogurt,
Our secret spot,
We would, without a thought,
Childishly decorate,
Build landmarks; but now
When it's time to separate,
I realize, as we stare
Ruefully at one another,
That we marked not only places,
But ended up coloring each other-
~ Irreversibly ~
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 2:19 PM UTC
And oh, how sweet, the words you speak, they taste.
How soft they blow, how sure they flow; no haste.
An old eclipse, how slow, your lips -- they part.
So young, naive, quickly deceived, my heart.
How warm, your eyes, they hypnotize my soul.
And how I miss the touch, the kiss, you stole.
So sure was I that you'd be my first love.
But love's a thing we know nothing thereof.
Foolish of me to fall so deeply in.
How long I thought your smile was not a sin.
And oh, how used, how scared, confused, my trust.
Feelings so shy, that you deny, 'tween us.
How ruefully, our memories, they fade.
How bittersweet our love; like lemonade.
- p. winter
May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 10:55 AM UTC
As he slowly pressed his lips onto my eyelids,
forehead,
then lingeringly onto my nose,
cheek and
finally,
my lips.
I then only realised how the seconds and minutes stretch out curving, meandering into ∞.
Half-moons of barely whispered promises but heard all too well.
As I ruefully reminisce, ribbons of myself lay on dusty floors.
For you are never meant to live in the past.
Not again.
Then why do I feel the ghost of your lips dancing on mine?
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 3:17 AM UTC
She passed by last night but ended up sleeping over.
********* the sheets smell of her,
And of ***
She's gone now, and he's hungover from her loving.
He sits up on the bed,
Downs the half-empty glass of whiskey
And grabs the packet of cigarettes on the night stand, pulls one out, lights up, takes a long pull,
And thinks about her.
Her pretty little ankles,
Her legs. Oh, her legs.
Her small waist,
Her long curly hair.
Her pretty little fingers.
When he closes his eyes he can still feel them upon his fingertips.
He pours a full glass of whiskey
And drinks half of it in one go, wincing in the process.
He thinks of last summer,
And of the times they had.
It's all memories now. Just memories.
Shelved and forgotten somewhere
As if they were an old dusty record.
He downs the other half of the glass, this time without wincing.
He thinks of the places they made love.
The shower,
The bedroom and even the patio.
The kitchen- that was the best.
They were too busy having *** he thinks,
While their love died of neglect somewhere in the living room.
He wrote her a letter a while back
And when she read it she got angry.
Said she'd write one back but she didn't know how to express how angry she felt
So he wrote her a note saying; Why not ink it in red, baby?
She laughed,
He was glad to know that sometimes he still made her happy.
She left because she didn't want the pain anymore.
The pain of knowing she shared him with another,
So she left that night, under the 1 o'clock moon,
Carrying her broken heart,
And wearing a sad smile.
He watched her leave
And smiled ruefully,
Thinking that she gave him all her trust, and he misused it,
He abused it,
Until he broke it.
Not because he wanted to, but because he was careless.
But he knows that hardly justifies anything.
People used to say they make a good pair, they work well together.
But so does pain and drugs.
And that's a deadly combination.
Things unsaid,
Empty bed,
Pillowcase soaked in tears-
This is what she's reduced to.
His heart's not broken though, he thinks.
He's been here before,
He knows this feeling;
The wound turns to a scar, and eventually
The scar disappears.
And he knows it's just a matter of time 'fore it all goes,
This heart problem is only temporary.
But in some years it'll be his lungs- he wonders if they've gone black already.
He flips the cigarette-butt while aiming for the ashtray
And misses.
So he picks it up from the carpet and places it there.
Then he bums a new one and lights it
And falls back on his bed-
Goddamit, these sheets smell of her, he thinks,
And of ***
Dec 28, 2011
Dec 28, 2011 at 8:38 AM UTC