XIII. So tired, so very tired emotionally drained, physically torn, and hungover so I will not apologize for slamming the door on your collapsed shadow. Anyway, you the disappearing reappearing poet / doll know every entrance and then some to mine humble abode (not to mention my weary soul) and you did find another way in, and I hope you were surprised when your shelf wasn't there. I tore it down in fury. You placed yourself on top of the books Tennyson and Rimbauld and watched me sleep. Why do you even care anymore? Oh, yes I care. Too much. Alas, the sun also rises. Alas, I also rise a late Sunday morn. gray skies, overcast. I also rise, Perplexed, for you were still perched atop my books atop my desk still where I write my poetry. You had not disappeared, scampering off for another adventure. But you waited all night. Because we both knew the episodic climax the apex of the tension grown between us the heart wrenching and termination that was to shortly follow breakfast.
|The East Village Poetry Web