More fountains than Paris and less than Rome,
We sipped vodka and trailed along conversation lines.
You feel the wire tap, make excuses while you try to dial back
the attention span.
In the bedroom, you felt sick.
Slept next to me, intermittently sighing,
I felt your sadness through the alarm this morning,
You slammed cranberry vodkas, one after another
and made me coffee.
You blur when I’m wide awake.
Who found out
What
Your breath heaves in
exhales long, tumbling downhill.
I ask too much.
You make no sense.
I am left in this prison
we play house in
and call home.
You fill the air with nervous conversation.
Highlight promises, loose bows knotted
in thin air, too much pull unravels
it alll. I hold my breath while you wait.
Walking home in pitch black, the snow
falls at my feet, my hands ice cold,
you listen to music, staring ahead and stuck behind.
I unlock the door and you make excuses
like origami, fragile and pretty.
You claim stake for sleep.
I take a long bath, pruning away.
Come in clean, hands to hair,
I brush through thick curls and soft skin
And that’s when you say
“You’re time has expired.”
I ask for clarity,
but you know,
Even I know,
Your words speak clearly.
I am not valid.
I am past my prime.
I am undesired, in affective.
Shelved. Dead. Transitive, the object
of discussion-no longer worthy.
Beg me to watch another movie,
seated to listen to you narrate
Every obvious sub-plot, avoid
Conjecture or confrontation and I
finally reply - no.
You can go back to,
Beg for, chase, or strangle
on whatever it is that distracts.
Maybe i am
crazy.
Men think when a woman
calms - she’s finally seen the light,
and they’re partially right, their egos
neglect to see the truth,
that the rage, the drama, the constant
shrill expires and the source of distribution
too becomes the transitive past interest.
"fewer" than Rome, not "less".
ReplyDelete