Is he back yet? Art? That sweet sizzling good for nothing no one. I was sitting in bed and felt a slap, a wave. Is he back? Sitting at the train station, on a suitcase? Doesn't he know by now he can just walk to my house? Is he back from that deep hole I have stored him in ? Lo, those many months ago, when I turned my blood into vodka and dreamt of its spillage, smelling the burn as it dropped to the floor. I bite my lip and run my tongue over my ridged teeth. It aches but is he back? I think he might as well be, sleeping on my couches and wearing my clothes. I have so long craved for Art's return, to caress his soft face and let me fade into him. O! How I want such an easy fade, my body and blood his, Art flowing thru my veins. Once again, I am a poet. I am overfilled with words and roses.
The eleventh of May, 2017.
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honeysuckle: poems by colleen cosette goodman
Poesíahoneysuckles still bloom after dark. colleen cosette goodman © 2016-2018
