Write moody poetry and drink black coffee
while wearing thick black lipstick on lips that never plan to kiss;
I'd rather admire the stains of pucker on the rim of my mug
than address the fact that they call it love.
"Do you love?", She reads to me from her Stephen King novel.
"Why should I?",
I ask absently, non-mindedly, not intending for her
answer, almost certainly.
"She led me to the mausoleum and I knew
she had the key. Of course she did."
I stared hard at the pane of glass behind
her bowing, fluttering head and dreamed-
There, I would be walking in the street.
Cars swerving about me and my idiot self
would be walking in the street almost asking
to kill myself. But, then I get to the other side and
"Hey, I have a joke" She flipped her hair.
She flicked a smile; inflicted a pang in my heart.
"Whut." I said, coaxing out the word with as much
giving-a-shitedness as I could hope.
"Why does the chicken cross the road?"
cars would be swerving around me
I could've died, and she wonders my motives. Why! Why
did I do it?
"Because he thought that walking on
the other sidewalk would make him happier-
Much happier." I stared at myself in the window
my hair tossling about my face as I slowly make my venture
A plank of wood, sitting in the back of a truck,
grazing the air between my neck and shoulder.
What a pleasant sidewalk. I'd like to chalk on it.
I'd like to drag brush to it, and I would like to
Walk on it.
(A poem of falling out of love with a gorgeous, self-centered, funny, shallow girl. Enjoy.
All misspelled words are intentional. )
