On The Death of a Past Love (Reprise)

The honey in your hair mixed
morning’s brew, that old cassette player
held us suspended, above lanes weaved
by another century. I would go back,
knowing it was my turn to change the tape
fix the twist with a pencil.

All noise is a rib cage, a trapped soloist
weeps out of tune, how the world rose grating
then, against a lidless basket of us.
We had our best before date
when my feet marched flat against the Draft
but my hands found you.




Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s