Sexual Musings :: Black Licorice

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

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