pseudopomohomoverse

broken clock

11:29
this bed is lonely
in a way, I guess.
I can barely see your face
in the dim glow of the fishtank.
your clothes, if neatly folded,
carelessly discarded atop
your rows of shoes.
your heater needs service
and it lingers in the air.
I'm trying not to notice your clock.
I'd much rather time were meaningless.
a movie, a martini, socks come off,
spooning, and sleep weighs heavy
on one of us.

12:17
we are both here, I think.
are we both here?
were we both at dinner earlier?
that any human being
could so triumphantly fail with chopsticks
appalls me.
that I found it endearing scares me.
as elitist distinctions fall out of my mind,
well, something goes up around you.
the more air I recycle in your presence,
the less it feels like breathing.
the more I get used to the idea of
your mirrored headboard,
the less this looks like my own reflection.

12:37
yes, this bed is lonely,
this I know.
a garment holocaust litters the floor,
a cry for a steam cleaning hangs in the air.
I ignore my clock, it's decorative anyway.
you were decorative. I made
up the time as I saw fit.
we wrote each other off months ago,
in real life, anyway.
seems your ghost was much
more attractive than the shell it hung out in.
doesn't mean the company of a memory
can't soothe some wounds
from time to time.

posted by Danny Boy @ 4:00 PM