don't ever date a man named Destruction

death and i
exchange digits

he never calls back.

i wait by the phone
a glass of water trembles
the rain smashes
into the window
i purse my lips
looking at
the cracked, dried blood
of his handwriting.
an elegant mess
with a careless
grace
his hands
brush mine

my fingers are rotten
with the scent of cloves
and damp earth.

pouting,
realizing
he probably deletes
my voice mails
as often as he
erases souls.




Poetry by anguisette
Read 719 times
Written on 2006-12-13 at 23:42

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Rex Panthera
Read it about 4 times and it got better each time I read it. You have a distinct means of expression. One that suits my taste quite well, too. The dual meaning in "digits" is quite amusing(maybe it was unintentional from your part though?).
2011-02-18


Sandy Hiss
This is a brilliant write Anguisette. I do love your writing style.
2006-12-14