i pulled out a damp pack of marlboros
and a pocket-sized poetry book--
sucking in tar and toxins
from a limp, soggy cigarette
and thinking of the nights
when bukowski and lennon
seemed like the only people
who ever really grasped
the world.
it was perfect--
right down to
the fingernail moon
shining overhead,
and the bottle of scotch
at my side.
but i still craved his smile
and the warmth of his body
next to mine;
still missed his smoke rings
and the raspy laughter he broke into
at all the wrong moments;
and more than anything,
i hated that he was out there--
experiencing the world
the way we’d always
dreamed of doing together;
giving ole buk a run for his money;
steadily forgetting me,
one barstool at a time.
Author notes
this is horrible, and right now- I'm too moody to care.
♥
Comments
1 - 5 of 5
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I really needed to read something good...and you always have it...damn girl...I miss your writing!
"but i still craved his smile
and the warmth of his body
next to mine;
still missed his smoke rings
and the raspy laughter he broke into
at all the wrong moments;"
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wow this is amazing, its the kind of poetry you read that you wish you could have come up with. i love and admire your imagery, i think it's gorgeous... this is not horrible, it's far from horrible. & im telling you the truth, not because im a big pitty party, i hope everthing is okay. this write is great and im going to have to read more of you poetry.
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it's actually a terrific read, regardless of your moodiness. true, i may be partial to buk-related poetry, but i still know damn good poetry when i read it and...
this is it. yeh, you got it like that.
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I've been writing&thinking about buk a lot lately.
It's starting to feel so overdone to me. But it is what it is, I suppose.
thanks for the comment.
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omg, those last two lines killed. This is NOT horrible at all.
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