For The Lonely

To My Blues, On Mornings After

come, midnight –

let us make babies,

futures fucked within these

makeshift beds,

seconds, still, like statues,

still like

ongoing tragedy,

stop lights that never

change

the red pours through my window,

 you are with me,

head rests on shoulder,

my shadow, on the wall,

come, midnight –

tell me your stories,

laughter laced content

over

tear-stained

shot glasses

the memories

go down

like tequila

hopeful, fast,

there is bracing

for the burn,

come, midnight –

bury your learned secrets

in the pits of my stomach,

that way we will smile,

even if we are

miserable

the back of your throat will

echo darkness,

the back of mine itches of

undigested regrets,

together we will scratch

the backs of lonely,

toast our transgressions

or maybe share a couple drags,

slow like cigarette smoke

that still spells out empty names,

plastered against the ceiling,

we will yell of past conquests,

come, midnight –

ask me about neediness,

I will pull my heart out for you

displaying places

it has been,

but then you’ll have to tell me

all about empty,

write the lyrics on my wrists,

so I can read them aloud,

when first signs of

the morning come,

until then

sing me that song

you used to like to sing,

when happy was a baritone whisper,

lullabies still lulled

naïve dream drifters,

and joy was the thick of it,

dripping from the needles,

back when the nights still had

the fattest

of veins

but come midnight

joy is glassy falsetto,

and we don’t

get that high

anyways

[End Poem]

Sometimes, the late night hours are a twisted friend.  In those moments, I guess it kind of feels like "at least the darkness gets it".....or maybe I stay up too late.

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet