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
this painful way I’m thinking
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
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.
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