Three Overly Sentimental Love Poems for The Recently Departed by Stephen J Golds

Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine, Stephen J. Golds

Three Overly Sentimental Love Poems for The Recently Departed 


Questions Over an Empty Grave


The woman who called me on my cellphone

to wish me a happy day before

I pushed myself into the rush hour subway

wasn’t the one

I hoped it would be.

You, I mean. You.


The woman who knocked on my door at 1am

with a wicked smile &

a gift of something she thought

I wanted, needed, no,

she wasn’t you either.


And that’s the way I’ve been thinking…

I’d like to think

you’re painfully thinking

of me

this painful way I’m thinking

of you.


But, I know. I know

you’ve already washed me away with

last night’s date &

this morning’s shampoo.


What is this bloody mess

I’m grasping with in my stained hands,

this septic wound coined Love when

I’m the only one left

holding the damned, poisoned thing?


You said you’d go with me

into that dark place, but

the dark always scared you and

I let go of your hand

somewhere months back.

I didn’t even realize you were gone.

Were you even really here to begin with?


You said I need to change but tell me

where is the success, the victory

in changes made and problems fixed,

when they’re improvements made alone &

birthed from a death like this?


What are the true weight of

a lover’s kisses

in the humidity of the

rain drenched night

when they aren’t yours

on my sensitive flesh?


What is the meaning of sex if

I’m no longer moving inside you?

It’s something boiled down to

a self congratulatory act

of malice that leaves me

spinning records with ghosts

isn’t it?


And finally,

finally, what good is being happy

if it’s being happy

without you now that

you’re another dull ache that

I carry around in my guts?


All The Unanswered Things


Love is subway stations

out of the town you grew up in

and love is the dials on the washing machine in the laundromat

when you’ve used the last of your change on the coke machine.


Love is the rabid spotted dog

that refuses to sit

and love is the black alley cat

after you’ve trodden in its shit.


Love is the silver pocket watch

from the flea market in London that stopped at 12:06

and love is the paper airplane

in the classroom waste paper basket.


Love is the moisture on your face

when you’re without tissues

and love is trying to smile at yourself in the

mirror on a Monday morning before work.


Love is the movie bank heist gone wrong

with a crew full of psychopaths and bad acting

and love is the overweight librarian

without her reading glasses.


Love is going to sleep

not dreading tomorrow

and love is something that

I am thinking about now

that it’s apparently too late.



For C.


It’s hard for me to sleep knowing

you’re in someone else’s bed tonight,


being all too painfully aware we share

the same night, the same darkness


but that’s

all now.