Or something worse

June 14, 2012

Did I Remember Or Am I Just Making This Up

Brooms in the closet. Bottles chiming. Tea bags in your mouth. Everything headed west. Is going south. Hand me a nail. Hand me a hammer. Hand me the cross. Let’s dance until the cows come home.

I need something. Something exciting. Something like love. But without all the messages. Tied in knots. Like your fingers the next morning in your hair. Smell the sweetness of first light. Quickly pull up my trousers. I’ll leave the door unlocked.

You were too drunk. Quoting something from Mary Beth Does Dallas. Why bring it up at breakfast. When you know I’m on my way out. To Starbucks. And I won’t hold you to anything. Except the wall. But those are the words of a much younger man. And these are the memories of an old man.

I own a big ass television. I own a Buick. I’ve had a by-pass. And my knees are creaking. Like church pews. I know I can’t have what has gone. My mind keeps going back over that evening. The next morning. When you walked out the door. Old news. Or something worse.

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