paperleaves
08-02-2009, 10:51 PM
a dreary summer night, melting in memories, sorry for the darkness:(
366
in my bed, swept up in cotton covers,
I dream of you, in panes of shattered glass, your scraped elbows at a glance
from the subway leaving our dreams
so close to departure, we wait on worn benches, hand
in hand, our scarves wrapped around our skinny necks
branching into messes of hair and winter hats
i promised him i'd never leave
but every night after toast and tea and vonnegut
we write each other out
and wake up to numb, comfortable lives
with weary eyes and broken hearts
367
stale cheerios and black coffee
the strong scent of your morning cigarette lingers
in the kitchen where we once made love
all i'm left with
are hardened dribbles of milk and sugar
on the placemat
where you used to read your paper
and write your poetry
until four a.m.
and now i listen
for the sounds of your car
puttering down the drive
from a moldy windowsill, littered with nests and webs
and dreams of you
the icicles whine on cold winter nights
and i can't find any firewood
when my hands won't bother
the lingerie and novels strewn across the hall
i try to occupy the nights
to no avail
all I can remember is
you, slouched on a stretcher
under bright lamps, with those bright eyes
and bloody lips
as you sputtered
"don't ever leave me, babe"
sometimes i wish i could
but I never will
366
in my bed, swept up in cotton covers,
I dream of you, in panes of shattered glass, your scraped elbows at a glance
from the subway leaving our dreams
so close to departure, we wait on worn benches, hand
in hand, our scarves wrapped around our skinny necks
branching into messes of hair and winter hats
i promised him i'd never leave
but every night after toast and tea and vonnegut
we write each other out
and wake up to numb, comfortable lives
with weary eyes and broken hearts
367
stale cheerios and black coffee
the strong scent of your morning cigarette lingers
in the kitchen where we once made love
all i'm left with
are hardened dribbles of milk and sugar
on the placemat
where you used to read your paper
and write your poetry
until four a.m.
and now i listen
for the sounds of your car
puttering down the drive
from a moldy windowsill, littered with nests and webs
and dreams of you
the icicles whine on cold winter nights
and i can't find any firewood
when my hands won't bother
the lingerie and novels strewn across the hall
i try to occupy the nights
to no avail
all I can remember is
you, slouched on a stretcher
under bright lamps, with those bright eyes
and bloody lips
as you sputtered
"don't ever leave me, babe"
sometimes i wish i could
but I never will