Her fingers drip with it,
even in her imagination,
gripping too hard until
it burst in her hands,
not sweet so much
as bitter sweet,
like all love is,
still she doesn’t let go,
holding onto it,
feeling it throb,
each beat of it
to the beat of her heart,
her rapid breathing,
the groan she hears
she emits
as she keeps hold,
not one bit of this
real,
save in the memory
of what once was,
that perfect moment
she says she
could have died for,
perhaps a part of her did,
part of her that went with him,
part of her like him,
never came back,
leaving her with
the sticky revery
of remembrance
the wish for it all
to happen again,
clinging moist
fingers
on something
too slick to grip,
a memory of love,
of a man she still loves,
dripping through her fingers,
and he may be dripping, too.
No comments:
Post a Comment