She could hear the highway breathing. (stopeatingcars) wrote,
She could hear the highway breathing.
stopeatingcars

poem

how do you send your love letters, your soft fragile graphite hearts,
when your mailman is raw with heart ache;
red-faced, charcoal-tongued, granite-handed, stormy-eyed
and collapsed at the feet of his linen-laced bride,
asleep in a sea of glass, the sheets stained burgundy,
and her broken mouth, cries out a desperate symphony

The envelop fades at the seams in it's little metal coffin,
it's red flag weary in waiting and anxious for attention.
& you should be pleased to know it’s not why he never phoned
He fancied fashioning himself in female accessories
& now you’re just another embarrassing t-shirt
Flaunting the name of a place you’ve never been
Lying among leftovers and letdowns
More outdated than outgrown, like home you’ve always known

In case you missed it, your wife’s dead in her own vomit
Died coughing up wedding vows reeking of regret
& the naïve little doe, waiting by the phone,
She’s the one you brought home that night before
Her earrings on the TV stand, almost as incriminating as a diaphragm

&I suppose it only goes to show, that every loving hold
Goes to and fro, for every kiss there is a hit
For every lover, there is a martyr


An obvious work in progess.
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