Alphabet Soup Minuscule

The Laundry Maid

Above Us Imbrued

 

You like a Lucky Strike,
I held nimbly between my lips.
I breathed you in, like no one I had ever had insufflated.
Festooning you in cinnamon lip gloss.
I wonder if you can still taste it?

Yet, you were incendiary.
And cold as the smoke of our fires,
Painted Renoir’s above us imbrued.
Bits and pieces of what we were, and
What we wanted to be but,
We never had the courage to give birth to.

Because we fell at our conception,
And we laugh now at the death,
That lay before us now.
A miscarriage of choleric red.

I cannot hang you above my dining room table.
Or put you up for a half-dollar at a tag sale.
For you were that piece of art no one would take a second look at,
Yet, I found something in you.
And I held tightly to it for four seasons.

Hybridized

My biology, hybridized now, yet I wonder if I still add life to this place?
You attempt, to trim off these bruised roots,
Yet, still I watch my petals fade, and fall.

My thirst only grows as,
The counters collect these pieces of what used to be me.
I wonder why you picked me, just to watch me die on your table.

Fell Blooming

We had two good days,
Before the silence fell.
Fell blooming like trees and,
Flowing like the rivers.

All around this space that used to be us,
In part, and in whole.
That has left only a vacancy of what fell to dreams.
With a quick snap of fingers,
And of unthought-of impulse.
We choose to be less, and have less.

Only to be left with a dozen odd socks,
Unmatched, but lying neatly in a row, on an unmade bed.
The Car’s play in the background,
I know that you are broken,
Something I can never renovate.
As the Robin’s outside my window freeze and,
Choke on the berries they swallow.
All around this space that was never us.

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