I miss reading my poetry to you

letting my words roll over you before they hit anyone else

knowing that sharing them with you meant something to us both

you said you loved me

but there were so many things

not working

and the two things that keep my heart beating

You and my work couldn’t live together anymore

I tore myself apart

to do what is right

And now I sleep alone

with words that flow 

like wild western rivers

and everyone says I glow now

that my dreams are in reach

but I sleep alone

and miss a thousand things

beyond just touch

when our souls would dance

and my words

my poor, poor poet words

would wash over

and feed us both


5 thoughts on “Washing

  1. Wow, where do I begin. This was a very evocative experience. The flow was impeccable, the imagery was delicate without being frilly, and the soul was so beautiful and alive, albeit tortured. From start to finish it sounded graceful and eloquent, like a master poet who is familiar with her pain and can move–practically glide–inside it with ease.

    If you are writing from experience, I want to send you a virtual hug from the sub-zero city of Chicago and tell you it gets better. And we are always fed by our words, sometimes in the face of our melancholy and begrudging. But the love that we find, whether we get to keep it or lose it, is worth it, especially for those who can wield the craft as beautifully as you.


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