I'm Not Listening Anymore

If air held
corporeal form,
applied young
summer warmth to senses;

given hands

she could form a fist
or shield
her face in
subzero circumstances;

and given eyes
that by design digest
ruthless conquests of
a world in its youth,

every image
would offend her,
delivered intact but

misconstrued.

(All you need for proof of old sorrow are the temperatures borrowed in ocean irises- she smells pirates on the seas, drinking undesired decor in her mead, and chokes on the weeds we’ve tended in her garden.)

The emptiness of
our tenure spreads
to her
because
she lives
and speaks
and cusses
and struggles to
forget
what she’s seen-

of the wines she has tasted and
the men she has pleased;

banter
heard, the same
promises almost
word for
fucking
word

(just poetic wax
competing for
obscene).

Tracing her initials into napkins, heart in
anything but this
space and time,
eyes following the distance as if
to catch it and keep it warm.

Her vision is
adequate,
numbness in
her fingertips accurate.

Her ears are still working
but this girl isn’t
listening anymore.

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6 thoughts on “I'm Not Listening Anymore

  1. Wow indeed! So much talent. I feel an affinity for this girl already. Like if my own life turned out really really crappy, she would be my drinking buddy and my muse.

    Like

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