Going. Slow. Fast. Disconnecting.
I died a little each day we were no longer together.
You could have been an old post of a man, strapped with leather and a hook, wrinkled by the sun. And red tulips in a simple sleeve from the grocery store pressed into your palm. I shall look at the young man boot strapping cowboy with future in his eyes.
Shake my head shake my hair, pull it if you dare.
Some of you bite your lip and take a side, as the blood drips from the scorn.
Sit at the table friend, the smoke is thick, the smiles wide, the coffee black, our seats are wooden, our hearts are warm. My words are truth no distort, no wah wah pedal on the floor. Break my string, I shall require a rewire, a tune up and a cigarette. Pass me another wine before I smack you to the floor.
Vinyl on the turntable vinyl seats in the room, vinyl paints upon your ass slip slide a tune. Fidel’s for coffee and a cry, out back the sarcasm wit and a whisky dry. Oh take a sit down at the table let me get you cake and tea, a pint of lager and some empathy.
He kissed her cheek as she sighed, she wasn’t asleep, she watches him from the corner of her eye. His gentle hand upon her brow, he leaves forever, she deserves better, he knows this now.
Saying I’m fragile, I try not to be, I search only for something I can’t see.
paulapavlovaluva 