Saturday, August 22, 2009

I'm tired.

When the rooster crows at the break of dawn I'll be gone.

I miss it.
I miss the comforts of a forced love.
I miss mashed potatoes just because,
and the warm smile that handed me the spoon.
I once loved a woman
but that's gone.
Fiction is based on fractions of reality
but not enough to take solace
in the idea that it will come to pass
for me.
I sit empty looking for eyes to fall
lids to become lead
but that comfort cannot be forced.
I'm so lonely.
I wish I was a satellite, content in my purpose
whizzing about the earth
rerouting simple data
to places below.
but then I would gaze back and envy the moon.
There is no escaping beauty.
Where is my Brandy Alexander
where is my statue
to kneel before
and want nothing more.
Something in my chest aches
but it's not my heart
it is something without name.
Looking at what could be
and discarding the reality
is my bane.
I am wanting.
I am needing.
The time will come,
or it wont.


Tears fall on this piano
but there are no black keys
only letters meant to be joined
by my will.
What will come
my compositions seem to sit
in the ether
someplace between water and air.
Who will care.
I will cross many bridges
to find the right order.
All along envying
songs that describe my soul
with greater ease.

My thoughts go to and fro
wondering if she is typing to me
creating things that I will understand
and when our words dance
across a smokey room
then she will know
that I am here.

Where is her dirty laundry?
I wonder why my floor is bare
save rags of my own.
Where is the mess of soap
and lipstick?
My hovel is too clean
singularity is what I find comforting
until the silence settles
and the floor shines without a single scuff
of her heels.

Tonight the air is thick with my sweat
my thoughts ache in my head
but no matter how fast my fingers fly
the notions remain
banging about.
I'm common
a dime a dozen
but even the coals
have solace in knowing
that together
they will make a fire.

I'm not done.

1 comment:

Lovely Little Lovelies said...

This is quite an intense little pocket of passion. You have such a way of weaving words.