(To Jon)
He sleeps by himself,
eating his brain into numbness
like an argument.
He pretends not to think,
not of that, not of her,
not of the age they promised,
they just put behind.
he stacks the books one more
over his lungs.
He acts as if he can’t see her
wide pentagonal face gleaming in the dark,
mocking the corners of his sleep.
He forgets her name, one more time,
he writes on the back of a receipt
that’ll go nowhere.
She won’t, in her weakness,
reel him again.
She won’t spread her mighty thighs
and tell him his future lies in between.
She will melt back into the sidewalk
where he first met her,
and he will crumble into the edges of the day
and feign starting again.
He sleeps by himself,
eating his brain into numbness
like an argument.
He pretends not to think,
not of that, not of her,
not of the age they promised,
they just put behind.
Not of the time,He raises the volume a bit higher,
the cruel time,
the cheap time.
he stacks the books one more
over his lungs.
He acts as if he can’t see her
wide pentagonal face gleaming in the dark,
mocking the corners of his sleep.
He forgets her name, one more time,
he writes on the back of a receipt
that’ll go nowhere.
She won’t, in her weakness,
reel him again.
She won’t spread her mighty thighs
and tell him his future lies in between.
She will melt back into the sidewalk
where he first met her,
and he will crumble into the edges of the day
and feign starting again.
2 comments:
There are days in that is it not but that to fake to begin again... to fake that anything hurts... other days as if everything had happened
this reads aloud with such potency and depth. i am moved. i read it again. i read it again. i am reminded of how i listened to avec le temps 7 times today.
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