wb :

I was bored.


It happened again, while they stood at his door.
The neighbours were smart, they already knew, and
Turned up the sounds to drown out the silence
Drew their curtains across dusty windows,
Shut their gates, locked and barred. He
Always, always had a smile like sunshine but
A tongue that cut too deep like how his hands would, sometimes.
She wouldn't stand for it, clothes cluttered in musty boxes,
Strewn across the coridoor, five years worth of them.
She stamped her feet, palms crashing across an unshaven face, his spit
Biting her eyes, running down her cheeks,
Like how it used to, between her legs.
What could/would/should they do, other than play along,
Throwing her set of keys on his living room floor,
Next to her/her? earrings from the night before.
His last sight of her will be her torn sundress,
Dior, he spent a whole fucking month's pay on that, but
Frankly my dear, he couldn't give a damn. He couldn't love her
Like she couldn't love him, a four-letter word he swore never to
Say. He knew she'd say yes, if he'd run after some fleeting silhouette
Chasing dead butterflies. But
That could be done tomorrow, after he skirts around the
Broken glass, dead telephones, Dior dresses sunbeam smiles
Varnish on a funeral pyre, stepping and bleeding from
Her set of keys on his living room floor.

Labels: poetry