I'm standing in the hallway near the kitchen.
Watching her hips move slightly as she dusts off the window pane.
Every time she leans forward her breasts smear the dirt she's attempting to remove.
It always turned me on to see her natural state in such an exotic manner.
This is what I miss the most. Her ghost leaves a scent that only I can recognize.
Others say it's long since gone, but I can still see her there.
I can still smell her lingering sweetness as her memory passes by me,
to lay down after another one of our endless arguments.
She cleaned when she was upset; as if to sort away all of the pain I caused her.
It's only when she's gone I realize how little I did to really love her.
The curve of her hips to her legs presses against the corners of the couch,
as if to hide her exhaustion from me. I know she's tired of me.
I grasp the edges of this fading memory as if I could grab her by the arm and force her to stay.
But she has been gone a long time. And I am still here, begging her to come home.
But this was never her home. I built a cage for the woman I loved.
A stage for her to entertain me. I stared at her body instead of into her soul.
I answered her questions before she asked them.
I never had time to see her, to hear her, to feel her...
I pushed her from room to room, away from me further, every time.
I begged to own her body rather than asked her to share her magic with me.
Her love-making was magic that I pretended was a show to buy tickets for,
and I could be the only audience member, but I was never in the show.
Now that show plays in my memories,
and I would give anything to turn my worthless tickets
Into a resume, into a headshot, into a chance to worship that magic.
But I didn't listen, I didn't feel, I didn't see her. So she gave away my part..
When I didn't even know there was an understudy.
Watching her hips move slightly as she dusts off the window pane.
Every time she leans forward her breasts smear the dirt she's attempting to remove.
It always turned me on to see her natural state in such an exotic manner.
This is what I miss the most. Her ghost leaves a scent that only I can recognize.
Others say it's long since gone, but I can still see her there.
I can still smell her lingering sweetness as her memory passes by me,
to lay down after another one of our endless arguments.
She cleaned when she was upset; as if to sort away all of the pain I caused her.
It's only when she's gone I realize how little I did to really love her.
The curve of her hips to her legs presses against the corners of the couch,
as if to hide her exhaustion from me. I know she's tired of me.
I grasp the edges of this fading memory as if I could grab her by the arm and force her to stay.
But she has been gone a long time. And I am still here, begging her to come home.
But this was never her home. I built a cage for the woman I loved.
A stage for her to entertain me. I stared at her body instead of into her soul.
I answered her questions before she asked them.
I never had time to see her, to hear her, to feel her...
I pushed her from room to room, away from me further, every time.
I begged to own her body rather than asked her to share her magic with me.
Her love-making was magic that I pretended was a show to buy tickets for,
and I could be the only audience member, but I was never in the show.
Now that show plays in my memories,
and I would give anything to turn my worthless tickets
Into a resume, into a headshot, into a chance to worship that magic.
But I didn't listen, I didn't feel, I didn't see her. So she gave away my part..
When I didn't even know there was an understudy.
No comments:
Post a Comment