Melancholic man with a Busch in your hand,
At long last, did you find what you were looking for?
You were always fond of the water
Moving smoothly like how it did at Hubbard
And I was content with being an observer.
Perhaps that was what you did not like about me;
My tendency to melt into the background,
To watch as you faded into the sound
Of a lyricist spitting words that never made much sense to me.
I was always good at that, too;
Interpreting, understanding
But for a while I could not read you.
For a while I had always known.
Spring was on winter's heels like I was on yours.
You, always fleeting
Always reeling it in...
And I, always grasping at red clovers
Always chasing the shadow of someone who once loved me.
There was no steering clear of any fatalities that might have blocked your exit,
And perhaps if you had left more gracefully, with more mercy,
I would have simply held the door open.
But you and I both know that I am not so kind
And perhaps that is another thing you did not like about me.
I did not like myself when I was with you, so I understand to some extent
But those two years were not cut off the day that you left.
It began when I could not get you off the bathroom floor and take you to bed,
I just could not leave, and it's something I still regret.
YOU ARE READING
Sunset Over Pointe Inn
PoetryLove once stopped me from writing this book, and I hope that whoever is reading this someday finds the kind of love that inspired me to finish it.
