Heartache Is My Dirty Laundry
Heartache is my Dirty Laundry:
Heartache is a wrinkled, white tee-shirt used to mop up the leaked water from my
shower. It lies on the floor obedient and rejected. It is ignored for two weeks and
resented every time I step pass it to take another shower.
Yet, I miss you.
Yet, I wish things didn’t turn into a sobbing, molding tee-shirts.
I am fine though. I paint pictures of flying, green hearts. And buy cappuccinos before
browsing the blues section in the music stores.
Just yesterday I went to the used book shop on Pacific. I went downstairs to the
poetry section and grabbed the first C.B. book I could find. I sat on a step stool,
read his poem in a secret whisper and almost started to cry. Like a misused, rotting
tee-shirt would if it head a face with eyes.
Recall: recall the time I took you to that same bookshop. To that same pathetic
poetry section and read you my favorite poem. We were good people then and
carried so much hope that I bet we glowed in the dark like newly born stars.
Now I am a hungry lion and you are a second-hand clown. I am left with the bed
and the couch. You took my best one- liners and three smacks to the face. Most
people will tell us it’s because we were young. But we both know better than that.
It’s because we are both addicted to the dream.
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