ELEVEN : TWELVE.
4/2/11
I drove by the old box
factory last night.
The lamps were dim and
sullen, the windows cracked and broken.
I thought it fitting, our
ending, reflected in that lot
Like a warning, an
apology, a regret, always aching.
The night was clear and
cool,
But the smell of summer
hope and part time bliss ran back to me
The way I used to wish
you would.
I never knew what to
think of you, what to know of your thoughts, or the idea of our future.
I fought for silence in
my soul, afraid of losing…
What have I lost?
Those nights of
trespassing, the scent of vodka and resin and your cologne,
(And I swear I smelled it
last week, back in the studio while I fought to find myself again,)
The anguish and passion I
never could distinguish.
And I remembered the look
in your eyes while you watched me,
Watching you,
Hiding something,
Wishing something.
© BLAYKE MORROW, 2011
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