mfw

you can visit but you can’t stay there. and there’s this little agitation. so, you spend the day hiding under the covers with the cat pretending to sleep. you ignore that same ole feeling fresh from 30years ago. It would have been easier to kick heroin. but here it is saying hello, turning the screw, mashing your heart like an overripe tomato, and you wonder why…


you smell those moments full of blue and tears, dark like rain, soft but pounding. fresh young thing with an old weary heart. and you push through to those fractious moments – the trip through the badlands
and route 66, when he uttered “you c*nt” and threw a drink in your face, that long wrenching cry in the dark before you packed your stereo and told him no. you hitched back to ny, with another man, tooth decay, and wearing a stolen pair of cut-off jean shorts…


a lone phone call in the middle of the ‘90’s finds you almost dressed in white. don’t worry honey, it’ll only be one of 3. and none of them take. you pump iron, take master dance classes, and find a little
niche in a smallminded town, away from him…


and gold shamrock charms and a stolen ziggy stardust cassette, don’t make it better. hand delivered letters driven to my door 400 miles, you were a vision in your linen pants and white gauzy shirt. you
smelled like baby powder and longing sex…


the tear began when dad went home and major tom left for mars. thoughts about an aging mother and seven siblings all older than me. and then there is you…you are an old man now, full of lines all that
weed and smoke left. full of children and wife and picket fenced house and two car garage, and and and…


get up girl. make dinner. write things down. throw back a shot of bad icelandic gin. let the profound hurt crash into you like a wild ocean wave. see his fingers, crooked lips, and dark chocolate eyes. the
way he held you, loved you, hurt you, and left. filled with poetry, and dirt, and U2, and cuervo 1800, and skipping heart beats as you anticipate that knock on the door, arm full of roses and looking like home…

By franny

ny'er, 80's girl, lover of alternative music, bowie, sylvia plath, jd salinger, and and and...

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