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Sheet Rain (Irish Coffee, Chess and Terrible Mercies)

August 19, 2013


And you placed your tiny hand in mine.
Like this was some normal thing for you to do.
Like this was just the kind of thing that happened to me.
Like this was some mundane and unremarkable action.
That took place everyday in a comprehensible world.
As if you weren’t the most beautiful thing that Heaven sent.
As if Da Vinci wouldn’t dine on you like a beggar at a feast.
Like I could live up to it and not pray every night to die for you.
Like I might not take that second to the grave.
As if these things, too, shall pass.
And the abundant fish in the sea.
And “I’m what you want, but not what you need”.
Like lying to your children.
Like the only thing that ever was.
The only thing that will ever be.
Like you might love me in that ferocious and unhappy way that I love you.

So I bought you a dozen roses.
And you asked “Why?”
And I kissed you.
And told you.
“That’s why”.

I tell you I don’t miss you.
Not a single bit.
And isn’t it a shame that you believe me?
I tell all these lies.
And pray that you’ll see through.
All my self defensive bullshit.
But you never do.
Which must be a vindication of my wit.
And a perfect comfort unto you.


From → Poetry

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