Pathetically Romantic

A small picture

of a clenched fist

raised inside a lowered skull

pressed to a cold

toilet. Framed

 

Above where I broke

on the floor of a bedroom—

my lyrics replaced

with that of a

much lovelier song.

 

***

 

I kissed the stain I left her on the carpet,

looking deep into its fading tail.

(These sentences are pathetically

romantic. Right?)

I shook the walls and clawed below

where the picture still hangs. Oh, god.

The sun might see me soon, perhaps

it already knows. She snuck down to

peek before edging back to where

music is a holy thing and I don’t belong.

 

***

 

Eyes travel. When you can lay

there. And write some. The moon

peeks now. Naked, from its cloud.

In New York City. My first time.

And you’re closer than you’ve

been in a real long time.

I would frame this, if I could, put it above

where I sleep now. In Florida. I’d

sing along to a clenched fist now open.

But a bird, I am, still. Still running

its face into the glass of a lovelier song.

Close to where I choose my words.

At a desktop. Before dreaming the sleep

of my ancestors, and falling deeply in love.

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