You don’t tell me you love me
and I don’t tell you I know it. Instead
I make plans, steal words, write
poems you’ll never read, pour out the bitter
into the river’s swollen april browns,
swallow down cheap malt liquor,
drown the cheap lines and nights
alone with afternoons under the same rainy
roof, just like we used to, the smell
of your skin still intoxicating, only
you don’t tell me you love me,
and I pretend I don’t notice, put my clothes
back on, write the poems. And
do you know? I’ve had worse hangovers.
-
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the tenth muse 
Exquisite…yet…ineffably sad.
Thank you, Ron. sad seems to be my MO these days. better out than in, though. 🙂
Keep doing what you do…the world needs you. *smile*
Yes indeed, i have had worse hangovers. Poignantly phrased.nk
indeed. twas awesome of you to come and Poe with us on Saturday. hope the rest of your weekend was likewise excellent.
Dear Poetessa – such angst, such sadness, would be despairing on others. Somehow it makes you beautiful – ok, so enough beauty already. Time to sober up and cheer up! Sending love as always, Ol’ Man Mosk
O yes. Pour out the bitter. Better to put it on the page than have it turn poison in the belly. And turning poison into a poem that works is proof of craft.