Stepping On St Augustine Two Months Past February.
He's
sorry
for what he's done....
he's
apologetic, but the moon
she's crumbled in my palms and drenched
in my tears.
I rub my hands across my jeans and shoot stars across my ripped up, tarnished wardrobe
maybe he'll witness me before he closes his eyes
maybe he'll blind himself with tears...
I'm
kicking tomorrow off my feet so I can walk, barefoot, backwards and tattered over yesterday
and March burns the soles of my feet, I begged for quicksand, I begged for February
twentieth...
he held my hand, he held me, he placed his promises on my finger and GOD
how I wished...
my nails weren't broken, how I wished
I
was prettier....
He whispers through handwriting that breathes in the dark..
he begs me to open up to July, to a year later, to
HIM...
and these tears repeat in circles, I
WANT
to believe his truth, I want it to replace my broken heartbeat, I want it to save me and
smudge
moonlight
across my smile.
COME BACK
I beg to this irritable silence...
as if he has a choice now
come back..please,
I say
it's already 2010 and this game has been played since...
I
was 29, my eyes have blinked for you for years now....
PLEASE
stop...
cry us another August and place a halt on your mistakes...
April's cruel, I think, with her distance and control over my decisions, Florida tilts to
the west and I slip, a little, beneath the gifts the sky has given me...
I'm debating...
washing these blue jeans, of tarnishing the moon with Monday...
they're fraying and decorating unshaven knees, but he'd kiss them
he'd kiss my negligence and I'd
be able to forgive his mistakes and the abhorrent bruises that brought us here...
Whisper me St Augustine
and February
Twentieth
I say...
as I twist his promises around my finger...
let me...
hear
your
voice.
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