Thursday, May 26, 2011

Highway



You were warm once
back when I was.


Now you are a sheet of lace
floating on an incandescent ray and
a pair of crimson lips
on a lifeless face
staring back at me through
a golden polaroid.


I feel you in the damp concrete during
a summer storm;
I hear you in the cadence of a sweet hymn,
in the caress of a country bow and
in the crackle of decades-worn vinyl.


And now I press on,
and now I press on.


I have to press on.

Real and Imagined.

  Better to break bones than to endure the loss of perceived love.  Better to bleed internally to keep warm than to seek out comfort in anot...