There was no poetry in our bodies on those nights and early mornings. Only lapses in human judgement and motions that didn't mean all they were supposed to. (I was always loneliest sleeping next to you).
There was no poetry in anything you said. Just lines recycled from Hollywood scripts. (4/10 on delivery).
We tried to make poetry out of what was left behind of our souls (after the ones that came before were done with us), but not enough remained.
I have a poem for you now. About freckled skin and hands that quiver in the dark, about you and us and a place I'd never been before. But it is nothing to remember us by.
(It is a poem and we were not).
S.
The night we drank too much cheap beer and keyed our initials onto a cheap bar room table,
well,
it turns out it was magic.
It's just taken me all this time to understand.
Too late, of course.
I missed my cue and then delivered the wrong lines.
And you took me for what I said, not meant.
(Naturally).
[I'm sorry, as always].
S.
you are the wound that never healed
the itch i scratched
until I bled dark onto eggshell carpets
the scab that formed
that i tore at
until you became part of my skin tissue
a distorted stain on creamy white
i cannot feel you any longer
but your damage is carved deep
and it shows on the surface
[i wanted you gone so bad
i let you stay forever]
S.
