The Tudor

by | Poetry

Presented without comment, dedicated to memories and dreams.

Such a strong vulnerability; like
moonlight on the lighter
as you try another cigarette, hoping,
this time, to burn out
in smoke and spittle the pure
body of art;

My beauties bled from between my lips
mixed with whiskey and not flowing;
thick, viscous and flammable;
I tried to cover my jaw
but with shaking hands could
only cover my eyes;

How long, now? How many years
drowning in our sins? How long since
we laid our own futures out, chess pieces
scattered to the office floor? When did your
legs come alive, and bury themselves
in the mire of my head?

Your beauties are your own, and mine
are mine; still, your soft words shouted
over cacophony given awards for poetry
echo and rattle and your body moves like
a priestess rising from the sacrifice again
and your hair makes a mystery of you and
your fingers wrap slowly around whatever
it is you’re drinking and I can’t wait for you
to talk again just to hear how my heart
is going to break again and the poetry comes
to an end in silence until the only poetry left
in this fucking room
is you.

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