The baseboards were wretching shadows as she bent down over everything. Tall at last against the furniture now dwarfed by the emptiness of the room. She was plucking and pulling at the moments unravelling. Coaxing the lies from their corners. Cobwebs collapsing on their own filth in a panorama of hurt.
No mess left to clean up other than ourselves.
He turned lightly against the grain of the bed. His eyes like pliers stripping the mood from the threads of the kiss. Carrying his penis in his hands he measured the steps piss by piss. Signing contracts written by fools with every embrace of her clitoris. The course of their pursuits leaving red footprints across the rug. Half-hearted specks of stardust settling upon the staircase. She cupped his balls like a statue. Her hands poured into that world soft and having been forced to grow hard inside it.
No name. No message. Just people losing each other. Or otherwise not finding anyone.
She sees the playground from her window. And asks herself why the swings are quiet. She watches the clock from her chair. And counts each year as an abortion.
Sunday
12/31/2006 12:15:00 AM
Sad Labels:
loneliness
,
love
,
lovers
| Life Poems |