Thursday, December 16, 2010

Sour Grapes.

Up visiting from a charmless winter,
She gives a sound to me.
“Here,” she says. “Take it. It’s yours.”
It carries no weight,
And it does not move me.
It is a dull gray murmur
That makes me realize even more:

I should never have come here.

Where are your clothes?
She asks me,
calling me different names
All morning.

Why did you come here?
An implication
I am currently familiar with.
Sidled with a sad indifference and
A series of regrettable decisions that
Neither one of us were prepared to make
As children.

Why are you so quiet?
In the car
Driving home,
And it lingers there,
But only for a second.

We had to shout last night.
We were dancing and then we kissed
In your sisters room
And -

Why are you so quiet?


I am looking straight ahead.
I am trying to see through
These low clouds
To better make sense
Of what it means
To get older

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