The week just won’t die,
and it could be the loneliest of the year--
if only there were some way to measure the ache
that started Monday with the failed, smug date
with the young punk you probably don’t even like
yet can’t help but wish would sleep next to you
at least once before New Year's.

And to think it was you telling him and yourself
that it is possible to take something torn
and scarred and mend it
with good intentions and a leather jacket,
like Michelle Pfieffer’s in Dangerous Minds,
an idea he did not have the courage
or will to disprove for you.

And it was you who came home later
to walk under the lights you’d nailed up
as talismans of nostalgia
to ward off what must be coming
that would only blink desperately
in the cold seconds it took you to
fumble for your keys,

when the sound of him driving away
sparked some smart of rejection
so absurd you couldn’t blunt it with ration,
though you tried and tried once inside,
as you tucked yourself into the couch,
in the midst of the strange halo
you had created with your own hands,
failing to foresee
the dim it cast to what
it couldn't reach.

12/06/2009

Author's Note: Yes, still writing the same poem.

Posted on 12/06/2009
Copyright © 2010 Jesse Chapman