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)(
Lips pressed against my bedpost
I'm telling you I can't hold on.
And I can hear our song on the radio but
each bite of melodic emotion seems to swim around me in
circles like punctured birthday balloons from someone elses party.
I've never had a way with words
and this is no different;
trying to tell you across splintered dictionary dreams
we're not alone anymore, that
the haze at sunset has disappeared,
has reduced me to sugar glass.
The map pins holding together our house by-the-sea
have fallen out and maybe after it all
- the accidental tea parties,
our shared punch-bag of hope -
those cheap whispers were right.
Maybe we should have understood that reality was no place for
smudged romance.
jeez
this is just awful writing, good thing you've stopped
Incorrigible.
Incorrigible.
Live til you die.
Your sins will be read to you
Your sins will be read to you ceaselessly, in shifts, throughout eternity. The list will never end.
Oh good. An afterlife would
Oh good. An afterlife would be nice.
Live til you die.
)(
I like the scene you have designed here in your poem. I hope the evening went well and with such good news to tell as well. There is always room for a bit more of romance, surely??
http://www.postpoems.org/authours/a.griffiths57
You have me
Going round in circles
But I would smudge one up
For you