art-less.

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. 

{Photo: Lisa Overdose Flickr}