every inch of her that thing someone, everyone could love - a simple breath to be.
Sure, I miss her cheap attempts at gangster ways, the cock of head and clench of teeth,
as she screamed (the simple way she sometimes swooned, melted into me)
But once more to that couch of lecture - the one where forever I am fool
I am summoned, taken, beaten wearily on the large L cushions.
I sometimes wish to see her her on her ass, out in the cold, small place where she can bleed
eternally knowing its how she grew up long ago, how I am still - this simple Ovid lost
Perhaps that was her in college - she never quite did speak, or tell.
Stuck alone , her mother shrieking at the wall, soon a 45 tale not told.
Sure, I saw her successes - how she'd kill to keep that life.
Sure I saw the accessories - the cheap way she'd cut a vein, claim a life.
But, Gods, that coldness - is it woman's bain to hold?
It is my curse to maintain - a life then so bold?
But now adrift with one thing left to know - she may not want children, she
may not want success, nor care, nor kindness, but that simple question:
...did she ever want me?
So I drift out on that unknown sound, a different ocean yet to drown upon
this city worth dying it, this shore a strange confine dragging on
time trudging ever, ever, ever something something...and I there,
falling inward, crying outward, seeing the hard times by which
to take a hand.
No comments:
Post a Comment