Some Feelings Never Die

Under Seat Cushions

yesterday, I saw you in my mirror,

five foot nine, or perhaps

another inch or two in heels,

I taste you in the bitter

sweetness of caramel creamer,

macchiato, with a little froth upon my lips,

I guess I keep

finding myself swirled

smack dab in the middle of your thickness,

there was a time I imagined escaping those

straight-no-chaser eyes, but now

I drink down the view, from the hip,

bracing back and fractured self for

the impact of your beauty,

it always manages to flatten me

by morning,

demanding that you take me back

to that angle against your bed,

the soft, loose filthiness of

our forgetful hands, fingers

that once rolled down skin like fog,
only to rise slow like whispers that became

epitaphs for our grave,

once upon a time, we took a knife to this passion,

and we stabbed, and we stabbed,

it still refused to die,

but now your eyes are less chest felt shock

and more respirator,

reminding severed hearts that they are coma victims,

we barely breathe, on our own,

without being hooked up

to the machine that is this loneliness,

it beeps in awkward silence,

hellos that sound cordial, but never real,

yet always scream loudly in the backs of our mind,

you, staring at park benches that remind you of my writing,

me, pulling your voice from the scrapes of tree limbs

on those nights when the wind refuses to still,

and I wonder, why are we fighting this

together, alone?

 earlier, I found our love, folded limply

under the seat cushions

of a heart, that feels less cozy

and a bit more used,

I wonder how long you'll sit here