“Words I once wrote lie on the table”
No– they don’t lie —they tell the truth—
They hurt.
“The truth always hurts”, you said.
So does love… life’s a masochist’s sick dream;
I wallow in pain and the ecstasy of self-pity
Too bad…
I hold a pillow tight to my crotch
Wishing it were you
Wishing it were your throat
Wishing for wishes to come true.
Slumped in my chair
(The big overstuffed one you never liked,
saying “It’s bad for your back”.
Listening to the scritch-scritch of a record dying
The clicking of the clock and the hum of cars
Wrapping me in isolation.
This was an even week— your parent’s for Sunday supper
(You always said I was possessed by details).
I rise, and cross to the window,
Looking out to sea, to see
The towers of balconies
“The balconies of abandoned women”
I remember
You once called them— now I stand
Abandoned also, left behind like your
Old shoes, ties unbound and
draped from doorknobs
Forgotten reminders of romance.