More Poetry.

[matt_doyle]

((Author's Note:  This one was written after an especially painful break-up a few years back, and so it doesn't really capture my feelings on the subject as they are now ... but as a poem, I still like it.))

Oubliette

 

If he could, he’d shed his skin, for every memory

of her touch itches on it, like poison ivy.  He’d fold it up,

hide it in the box in the back of the closet where he keeps all her letters,

and everything else she left him with in two long, wasted years.

 

The box isn’t there, not really.  She stole it, and everything in it,

and a lot of things he never got the chance to store away there. 

He’s become a puzzle with missing pieces.  All their secret vocabulary,

Every laughing photograph, every thoughtless impulse towards trust.

 

He wonders what it is that still tastes so bitter about it all,

What regret lingers like dark chocolate on his tongue.

Even if he knew it would be useless to say it out loud.

She wouldn’t listen even if she was still there.

Comments

[matt_doyle]

I know I still have at least one... should I email it to you, or post it?

[handgun.livejournal.com]

doesnt matter