Too little, too late.
We have left for opposite
ends of the Earth
and now you have kissed
that drip-drunken mistress
goodbye.

Now, I listen to your music
all the same
you pick up my good books...

Whatever I said was never enough,
too old for words that sprung from my mouth
you basked in 20-something's "all knowing"
turned each cheek with lofty grace
and smiled.

Cute.

I, so young and restrained by convention,
and you,
so wise and so free.

And now we sit at the poles
and watch the world turn different ways
without us
and see how the fruit trees bloom
when everything left is forbidden
and words don't mend what ought not to be fixed...

But why is it
that nothing with us ever grew
until it was plunged in the ground
and layed down to rest
post-mortem?

Why do these sweet
and tender new shoots
rise only from what remains to decay?

Post-mortem
we rest
and drink
and reap our salt-harvest
and toast
to the futures.

03/25/2006

Posted on 03/26/2006
Copyright © 2024 Trisha De Gracia