The night when I had gotten rid of
it all. Or almost. I doesn’t matter,
I told myself. And you came back
And asked me, that question; that one
I never will be able to answer.
Do you write any fictional stories?
Do you,
really ever give yourself
over to imagination? Do you
think too hard about thinking?
I often wonder about
what you did not say. I do, or
like to think I do. There is no
running away. From you. Or your shadows,
have you imagined werewolves? Howling
at the night, changing forms, getting pathetic with
the pain of transformation? Have you imagined
how they die a thousand lives, crying out
to mirages? My room is cold,
I have a fever. There is one more beer
to be drunk. There are despairs
that I will find tonight.
Stories, these. Yours’, mine. Yes, ma’am, I
heard you on the tinny piano downstairs which
promised me my first five cents of heartbreak. Smoke
wafting from burning hearts. Did you know, heartburn
was not good for your health? I have loved you
knowing that this will end in ashes. But
you and me? Na, that is just a dream. We
couldn’t really have made it better. You
would just go away. I
would just smolder.
Let us end this. Right now.
No comments:
Post a Comment