Tuesday, December 9, 2008

Broken Chords

Waiting for the phone call that never comes,
and the ambiguous letter that is due to arrive.
Sitting in the room with blue and green walls,
I navigate toward the green—my internal envy.
Envious of the city that stole your heart from me,
and those constituents that kissed your cheeks
and held hands with you down the cobblestone streets.
Envious of the women who filled you with lust,
and the lack of guilt that filters the human soul on both ends.
Envious that I was cheated out of the truth when
making passionate love underneath overcast skies.
Each chord I play becomes flat, and each note
becomes sharp, like the razors that tickle my skin.
Pulse beating, ticking, heart stopping, reviving.
Cardiac arrest.

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