Don't Feel Bad for Me, I Want You to Know...

There is a simple joy
in laying here thinking of you,
with your round eyes
and kind smile.
Your face floats in my head
and I remember what we used to do,
and what we used to be.
Now we are no more,
and it is unfortunate, but not hopeless,
sad, but not desperate;
it just brings a simple joy
to lay here, thinking of you.


Fill me up with all the good things of this world,
and I will be no more but for the
beating pulsating rhythm of your thoughts
against the blanket that once cocooned both of our legs
in the dead of winter.
Our toes found each others',
and the chills you sent down my spine
weren't only from the damp that lurked in the air.
The blanket remains with me still,
and once in a while,
it smells of you and instantly
I am thinking of the times when
all we ate was chips and frozen pizza,
and recycling was an adventure.


You told me what you had to say,
but I talked for you
knowing the exact motions your mouth
was going to make,
and you recoiled in surprise because
your lips could no more deprive my senses
of the reality of the universe.
And I almost cried as you sputtered,
trying to regain your footing in the quicksand
that you had danced to,
holding my hand in yours so tightly,
and I had followed,
cautious at first, then skipping along.
And now you tell me you have to go,
holding onto the rope that she threw out to you,
strong enough to hold only one,
and as I sink here, slowly,
now my neck,
now my chin,
now my nose,
I see you with your wife and children,
and once in a while, when you eat cake,
you think of the time you wiped it off
my chin with your thumb.


"Stop crying," he said.
"Okay," I replied, and I fed my tears back,
took a spoon and scooped them back into my eyes;
drip drip, all over the carpet,
drip drip, all over the floor,
scooping, but not fast enough.
My shirt is soaked,
that's okay, it had to be washed anyhow;
drip drip, off my nose,
drip drip, down my chin, onto my chest,
drip drip,
I'm feeding my eyes their tears back with a spoon,
drink it up eyes,
gotta stop that leak,
drip drip.
Honey, we might have to call in a plumber,
this problem needs a professional,
or maybe a doctor,
my eyes can't keep their tears in anymore,
I think they might be bulimic,
they always seem to be in the bathroom nowadays.
"Stop crying, you're overreacting," he said,
and I replied with an "okay"
and got out a spoon.