Somewhere, A Glass Armonica Wails

You hurt me on a cold beautiful 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 you have given me when I needed someone to see. A shiver, a pause. Yeah, you hurt me. The cold of course antagonizes, on beautiful days 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. Always asleep. Always denying you ever hurt me but winter’s a season for freeways, not friends. Leaves fall and die but roads do not end. I passed your exit, I think I forget, passed the cafe where for coffee we met oh say one million times over the past months and the coffee was bitter and stuck to our tongues. 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 by the strike of eleven. No one to meet for coffee at seven.


~ by perfectionatrix on January 4, 2010.

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