There was a time when to write in verse
was the only ache my heart could read
- finely, minutely, intricately -
Like fingers flying over braille,
or over the crevices of my mind.
There was a time.
Not long ago, the sweet taste of intimacy
curdled to bitterness.
Sharp, warm, and like molasses,
it spread over every part of me
that had been kissed so intimately,
that old lovers slid off
to make way for the lingering taste of the new.
Even then, the words I read were only those
that fell off of the lips of my memories.
And do you know, there was a time
when the warm twist of aged friendship
could grab me in a vise-like grip -
so gentle that the only bruise it left
was the comfort that comes with familiar arms.
- you know when the scars could scab
as easily as fruit going ripe -
the bloodshot shot eyes
of a wounded liver couldn't keep me from running
into the libido of a one-time lover.
There was also a time, not so fine,
when grief meant 3 am tantrums against a bathroom wall.
My body sliding down, down, down
towards the carcass of failed love.
That was the time when wafting scents of content
lead me straight into an abyss
that would solicit only frowns.
dead is the author that once drove through the walls of despair
with the sharp tip of a poet's quill.
Because all the ink I had in me bled through the scars and drowned in the grief,
that found its way onto the graves of mutual memories.