She asks me
She asks me how I did it,
rid myself of it
Separated him from me like the
milky membrane of raw chicken breast…
I am flattered that she looks to me,
that I’ve been tossed in every flavor of storm to
survive and spit its rainbows at each end.
“It takes time.”
Though not always in that order;
there’s no order in heartache,
just questions in tongues we don’t speak,
in eyes we can’t
see ourselves in anymore.
Yes, time takes it
and loves it till it breaks,
drops shards of it in our paths
to remind us as we try to tiptoe
through the day
unnoticed
or at least unmutilated.
But I can’t tell it like it is!
I am still it
and it takes me
back to the place where that picture was taken
back to that frame that somewhere lost its picture
It is that picture and It is probably in that box you never open It is open and
IT TAKES.
I am still It and It Takes Me.
She asks me
how
But I’m undone,
postdated and exposed,
still gripping his old shirt.
One Comment
- Anil replied:
Nice poem..
Keep up the good work…:)September 16th, 2008 at 8:19 AM. Permalink.
