Somewhere, a Glass Armonica Wails

You hurt me on a beautiful, gorgeous day when the clocks struck eleven before the parade closed down your street and sealed you from me. It’s not important, but yeah, you hurt me. I thought I could love pills and cheap gin as much as I loved the time that you’ve given me when I need someone to see. A shiver, a pause. Yeah, you hurt me. Even the warmth antagonizes, on days like today when I realize it’s at least half my fault, and mostly my blame for constantly stepping just wide of the frame you spent so long making, gathering, shaping the spoons into sets and watercolor paintings I hung on my wall with two thumbtacks each. So, metaphorically, you’re within reach. At long last, I’m no longer asleep and fall is a season for freeways, not friends. Leaves change their colors but roads do not end. I passed your exit, I think, I forget. I passed the cafe where we always met for coffee straight black and half-assed games of chess oh say one millions times over the past months and the coffee was bitter and stuck to your tongue. But I never cared, probably the problem. I watched distances grow and did not think to stop them. Instead, I nurtured them, thought of them, wanted them. Haunted again at the strike of eleven. No one to meet for coffee at seven.

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~ by perfectionatrix on December 8, 2009.

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