Thursday, 25 August 2016

Today's fraying thread: Madison Flanders writes in "The Poet" about the disconnect between one poet and another, despite best hopes.

The Poet

Every word he spoke melted
As my mind etched and sketched them into an image of you
His chest felt slippery and hairy at the same time

He smelled like Jim Beam
And the inside of a microwave
He would kiss me
Until my lips were paper snowflakes
My tongue rolling over the
tiny chapped trenches
I hated it but I wanted it
I needed it

If somber were a scent he’d reek of it
The way my entire life reeked of the Dove Body lotion
I stole from CVS, holding your hand
My nose missed the smell of old spice and salt
And the laundry room I had to enter to get in your room
I wanted it to feel right.

He wore black in a Florida Summer with winter boots
Saying he was going to get coffee and write
Scrolling through his Facebook the entire time.
Tweeting about how we don’t have enough
Real human interaction

I wanted it to feel right
But I was sick of poetry
And he was allergic to my dog.

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