Wednesday, July 18, 2012
While writing an article detailing
tombstone thefts in my hometown,
a poem memorializing a delusional heart
refusing to accept its fate of
of solitude found its way onto my screen.
Death recognizes its own.
I struggle these days not to cave inwards
while performing menial tasks like listening to
female voices singing, watching couples staring
at each other while eating in poorly chosen cafes
where waitstaff keeps asking if I'll be dining alone
and shutting my phone off before I attempt to sleep
so I can convince myself the reason it doesn't ring
isn't because you aren't reaching out to me,
but because I'm trying to conserve energy.
Lies told to self save the spirit from dying.
Leaning against the wall in a dimly lit club,
glass of ice water held by numb fingertips,
a woman leaned in close enough that the scent
of her hair spoke promises before she said to me
"I've seen you before, but been waiting
for the right moment to speak."
I opened my mouth to respond, but my breathing
stopped until the choke of your smile released its grip,
again parted my lips then and replied
"I'm sorry you wasted your time"
and took a sip of water.
The cold was no match for what was within.
I heard that drinking alcohol makes you forget the
ache of loss, the pain of imagining the one you love
making love to someone new, so I stopped drinking
wine so I wouldn't be tempted to pretend this is only
temporary like all the times before.
Permanence comforts me these days as nothing else can.