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(blank) posted on: Wednesday, Aug. 30, 2006 at 9:55 pm |
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I finish drying the dishes, Wince as you stomp up the stairs. We spent another hour dancing Around the empty space at the table. I turn off the light and walked upstairs, Into your room, Where you're asleep, All curled up and angry, And I think how small you look With your hair strewn about, And how young, without The eye make-up, and the puffed-up hair, How you could ever care about, Someone that left us both, Your little mouth was all stretched out And screaming, slack now, And pressed against your hand, curled In a fist, Some things never change. I walk into my room, and take The box I made, and look inside, At poems - stacks of them, And I feel sad, That half of them were written about him And the other half were written about being without him, I was your age, you know, I clutch them to my chest, Like I used to, Like I want to, Like I would do, With you, And I think To myself In the dark Of my thoughts And my room How can I ever care about The people That leave me? |
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