Tuesday, 20 November 2012

You Lost Two Years

You tell me you lost two years
to the last man you loved.
You say if you write a poem
                   don’t mention me,
mention the night and what
you see in the street.
The parked cars
    and how tires rest with the dirt
   they’ve rolled over, how houses
have locked doors
 and one glowing window.

Mention how sad the sky is
because the person it loves
won’t look at it. Mention a storm
             but don’t give it my name,
say it’s what love does to people,
say there is a man inside the house
next door, he is half naked
with a tattoo across his chest
that says “what doesn’t kill you
makes you stranger”,
say she can't forget the way he kissed her
               in the restaurant smoking areas.

mention a woman 
that was saved by the rain
but don’t give her my name,
say she is a smoker
that survived her own fire
and has not since stood
       under an umbrella.

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