I listen with my right ear; my left is just for show
The best in me has given way
to that numbing ache of never getting enough sleep
I’ve been ascending the sleeves of her sweater
Her breasts used to soothe me like an infant;
I was lulled so very close to her pink nipples
and the time-keep of her pulse
It wasn’t dreaming, but was soon to become such
Now I can’t so much as start a fire without spelling her name
in a whisper of smoke and stars
To burn (I’m destined) alongside my empty butterfly net
As she’s about to discover, monsters are real
They’re hollow threats
choking upon the surreal essence of deepest darkness
They’re cars spinning out of control
when our thoughts become too deep
for our eyes to continue focusing on the road
Lonely, they make us...
But she’ll never grow up, wake up, or look up for me
Passion is only safe in the stories she reads (nevermind my needs)
Tis otherwise a loveless predator
starving at the foot of her bed, and not dying
Power is a struggle, and she never learned to share
I am beauty’s fool, and I’ve an unforgiving clarity in remembering
Remembering how soft her kiss can be
Remembering the way those eyes could cry...
A chill took to her fear, tending to her paralyzing weakness;
made her more selfish than the devil dares to be
And so I am alone, not looked after at all;
not taken care of, and not better off
Currently void of all uses,
and falling (again) for nothing

Poetry from Fancy Gravity by Shane Windham
E-book and paperback now on Amazon.com

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