Wednesday, March 27, 2013

Sex On The Beach

One day I succeeded.
The sex didn’t mean anything
the beach did.

I drank black coffee across from you.
Traces of my mascara littered on my face
because my faucet eyes ran dry.

From my lips came all of these words.
Sounds of nonsense.
Sounds of regret.

One day had become every single other day.
As I tried to move on.
As I tried to forget you.

Your eyes now meant for someone else.
You stare at a stranger.
You give me a passing glance.

Three hundred and forty miles.
I drove to see you.
I drove to disappear.

I cried all the way—there and back.
Thought of us together.
Thought of us apart.

Facing the ocean, you watch it
waiting for the day
it opens like an open road.

Little do you know,
it’s my blue wasteland of sorrows
the gravesite of all our tomorrows.

The blue sapphire tombstone—of us.

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