I saw your reflection
on the hot side of a silver spoon,
melting down your "medication",
on a sullied couch in an empty room.
I could see your eyes
swimming through my cobalt veins,
I felt the twinge of brumal metal
as it came to take away the pain.
I could smell your sweat,
as the infection settled in,
stomach contracting, lungs collapsing,
an old familiar friend.
And I could hear your voice,
entangling my mind,
a shrill and distant melody,
I couldn't seem to find.
Still,
I see your reflection
on the hot side of a silver spoon
that my daughter sips her soup from
as we sit and talk of you.
And she asks about her grandpa
and the man he used to be,
and though I'd love to tell her well
I saw you differently.
I wont tell her that you left me,
a daughter of your own,
for a lover you called "meth",
and a needle you called home.
YOU ARE READING
Heartstrings and Other Things
PoetrySnapping like the strings of violins, red dripping on my fingertips. The angels cry for the bleeding hearts, the sirens sing their songs of sorrow, both sobbing in their worlds, apart, what is whole today is gone tomorrow.
