les pauvres cœurs


Saturday, September 1, 2007

She Was a Good Woman

Rusty fiddles in the dark
Sawing away at some unknown emptiness
Cutting emotions in half is like dividing
Negatives
You end up with more than you started
Unprecedented memories the smell of gasoline
Orange streetlights, cellophane from cigarette packets

She presses fingertips to her lips
Imagines they are his
He thinks of her face
Takes another burning bottle mouthful
She tugs at lank brown hair
Remembers his breath on her neck
He drives with friends
Smokes to rid his nostrils of her scent
She lies on clean sheets
Realizes twin beds are better for forgetting
He packs
Knowing the farther away from her,
the better.

Her brain never leaked from her eyes,
His converse remain unstained, so
This
is no robot prophecy,
but the storm is here.

1 comment:

Agent Jellie said...

Can't express how this makes me feel. In many more words I could possibly begin to decipher but here: I feel a need to save you from this and all I can do is send you my hope because we lovers know that this is the worst form of pain; regardless of circumstance. This is nothing ibprophen nor acetomenophine nor vicoden nor liquor could handle. But I am silently here if there is anything my presense can do.