I shall snatch at the linings you hold,
Cling them to my breast and make them mine!
To you I am not real, for in that
Box you shall remain a memory of what now...
Thirty years, nay fifty?
My breast comes cold and you are gone,
I fear those moments that
Shall be without you...
Maybe, no, of course you are real...
For I have seen you in my dreams.
Others may ask me, why him? Not only
A figment, but a trechor of types.
I say to them and to you, he lives on in
My heart, so unreal to these eyes and
Yet so unmistakably fine to my breasts,
The fingers again as they warm my less
Than perfect skin. I am not fat, I am not
Drunk, I am not thirty, nay fifty years
Backwards, I am not his type, for I breath air,
And he is kept alive on a diet of
Soft laughter, cool kisses, broken promises,
And bright, glowing memories.
Joy Carlson
November 14th, 2002, 6:58-59 P.M. |
|
