Out, out, damned spot..

I don’t write poems anymore.

I woke up this morning in that strange dark room

Beneath four voluminous blankets and to find the heater off

I reached for my phone, a now instant reaction in the morning hours

And read that poem you sent me last night

It’s a terrible thing to read a poem in the morning

Your whole day changes and you feel that throbbing split in your heart

And you have to write about it

and you don’t see the world exactly the same-

you have to write about it

your mind peels open like an orange and the sweet excess  rolls down your illuminated eyes until you can taste it on your tongue

But I stop here,

Because I don’t write poems anymore.

I get out of bed more out of curiosity than anything else

I slept too much and sleeping any longer will make me hate myself for that “you-slept-too-much-feeling”

I step down to the safe island of the bedside rug with my flat heavy feet.

Sanctuary.

Temporary.

These flat heavy feet trod their way up the hall

I feel thrash upon thrash of cold air

Prodding nipples

Hands across my chest.

And I would write about this feeling, but I don’t write poems anymore.

No one is here.

You left. You left me.

We were supposed to go see him today, you knew I knew but did not wake me,

And I know that I knew somewhere that you wouldn’t…

A cup

A cup on the table

Empty and clean, ready.

You thought about me this morning

But didn’t take me with you

There is coffee on the stove for me to warm up

Either coffee or tea but I always choose coffee lately.

I gaze into this empty cup and feel kindred

So empty, so clean.

A simple design on the outside

And I’ve never had a very remarkable face.

A handle to grab and take the cup to and fro.

But this is a much luckier thing than I

It will be filled, it will be warm, it will serve its purpose.

I’ve always had a pathological need to be filled.

My more riotous evenings show that side of me…

I would elaborate but I don’t write poems anymore.

And the coffee is boiling over.