Love stays in our shadow, never far behind, tho silent, as are a poet’s deepest poems, those never written.
Morning had come and mostly gone when she’d arrived. Haughty, pleasantries’ fraudulence danced between white wisps of smoke drifting upward from my cigarette like lovers whose fingers never brush against the skin of the other anymore; a double entendre leaped through a shivering silver-haze ring, as graceful as a dancer, tho unnoticed. If you listened closely, all you could hear was the distance, the mumbled muddle that fills the days.
“Words are the worst invention yet,” I thought to myself, perhaps saying it aloud, “never able to tame a thought, unable to hear a soul’s symphony, deaf and useless, never able to love. Death is not the end of sentience; our words shall end us.”
I’d spent the morning writing poems.
We knew before we knew– where this rendezvous of retrospection was going, careening toward our only honesty, headlong into wrist-bound surrender, the silence between gasps of pleasure screaming all our secrets in red-painted letters that reach the sky.
When it was over, and it always ends– leaving us to the echo-voices of our solitude’s madness, she asked, “When did you start drinking again?”