Sometimes
Emily comes to me as I sleep
as the sound of blues guitar
played bottleneck like
the last time we were drunk
and legs up -
I can almost hear her
four-bar giggling
as I dream her legs over my shoulders
and the vibration of her gin-dance,
hands tugging me to her.
Sometimes
I am hard, alone and crying
in my room-too-dark,
listening to the ghost of her words to me
some long ago dawn -
back when she loved me
and before the shadows
of this endless fucking nightmare
overtook us-
she said she would always love me.
Sometimes
I awaken sweating -
sheets pulled free and twisted around me -
and wonder when it all turned
to some heavy metal cartoon
of drink screw wretch.
Sometimes
I am sorry
for things I said and didn't say,
did or didn't do -
and sorry for the sound of the door closing
the last time she left.
Sometimes
when she is gone
she never really went away -
and when she is here
she is someplace else.
Last night
I tried to play a song I wrote for Emily
and ended with my guitar
in splinters in a corner -
I will not forget the sound of death
echoed as my six string crashed across the counter
until I was left holding just the neck.
It was the sound of us.
Honorable mention
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