She's Far Away, and I'm Not All Here

I am tired of bleats across the ether, two-word substitutes
For conversation. I've lost my taste for prowling streets
Alone. There isn't enough of me here for what I encounter
To leave a mark, as so much was taken when she went home.
So much sits in a drawer in her bedroom, next to the sea shells
And Mexican coins, waiting to be brought back into the light,
To feel her skin again against me, thrilling to having her present
Instead of glumly trying to fashion sensation
Out of her bleated words.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 195 times
Written on 2018-12-12 at 18:37

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