80

        time has an hourglass figure,
tight-laces us into corsets of regrets,
watches us elude our disfigure,
less to give every passing minute.

        another year, another ex.
you're thinking love is a waste of time,
but when your heart will be a jolly fat man
with a belly full of food and wine,
holding court in the party of your thoughts,
but a phonebook full of numbers you can't dial
most out of service, few out of line,
what you'll give to reach back into the pocket
of your wrinkled memories, nervous,
with a walking stick made
out of this very pain,
you'd give anything to not feel today.

        undoubtedly,
his touch will linger on your skin,
longer than you would want,
like a museum of leftovers,
of men who came like wind, now gone,
but once the pain washes off, my darling
you'll find your heart is no pond.
no man is thirsty enough
to drink an ocean dry.
So what if a lover walks away
a piece of your heart in his hand,
you’ve mountains of diamonds
in your trenches yet to be mined.

        the hand that reaches out
to strangers for help
will learn to coil into a fist.
the lips that quiver
will learn to kiss
the scathed creature
you carry within.
the knees you call weak,
tired of carrying the luggage
of passengers who long canceled their tickets.
the pain you now feel
is only your heart wanting space from your mind.
it wishes not to feel anymore
like a guest overstaying his welcome.
at his own home.