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By JD Date: 2004 May 27 Comment on this Work [[2004.05.27.12.23.32720]] |
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At night, he is with me, the wind guiding my hand to write pathetic lyrics of a love so soon forgotten. I do not know him anymore. His face is a blur. The touch of his hand is rough with time in my memory. His voice sounds the same as the tone of my printer, blotting out incessant words of a love so soon forgotten. I do not know him anymore. I do not know his favorite color Or the way he eats his chicken. I couldn't care less. Yet all my poems are written for him. He is my muse. At night he is with me, the shadow dancing on my window sill, cloaking my bedrooms walls with the stench of a love so soon forgotten. I do not know him anymore. So I churn out poem after poem, verse after verse, lyric after lyrics, ode after ode, and create him in my mind. His face becomes clear, I see him now. His hands are soft, I feel him now. His voice is at song, I hear him now. And every night, he is with me, the wind guiding my hand to write pathetic lyrics of a love so soon forgotten. But I do not know him anymore. |