I have very little faith I’ll ever stop loving you.
You’re in every cadence of my breath
and all the tiny midnight sparks
I’ve tried to silence and blacken
in this king-size bed.
Anger doesn’t bubble at the surface
of my well-being anymore,
if you even care about my health.
Regret doesn’t cloud my heart’s wishes
because the truth is:
I was completely willing to love you.
I allowed myself to be placed beneath
every rock you valued more than me.
There’s this stigma:
If you want a successful man,
you’ll have to put up with a busy man.
Well guess what?
Sometimes “busy” is just an excuse.
People make time for people they crave;
I was the black licorice
you tossed aside in the passenger seat
then melted in the heat of summer.
Skunked beer left in a cooler
from a roadtrip you had with your buddies,
because it’s easier to remember to forget ice
when you don’t want to call me
and say you’re safe.
Old boots against the wall of your bedroom,
faded from the sunlight at the window
and witnessing moments
of you throwing yourself down into the sheets
in exhaustion, knowing I couldn’t
catch you without scraping you with the spurs
of the knives you stabbed in my back.
I’m resigned; completely accepting
of the blank notes and wasted mileage.
What’s the point in being bitter?
It only gives you satisfaction
and leaves a lingering fragrance
of black licorice on your hands.
Copyright © 2016 Pearl Bayou