I’m better off in her head
than constructing a tribute
for invalid assumptions.
She picks my skin from my bones
with her eyes that melt me into a puddle,
evaporating into the light that recedes
through shadows spreading across the conversation.
Her lungs release screams, quivering through her lips
until her throat dries.
I’m alive, counting sheep, hoping there’s more to sleep
I brood on my blunders, taking her
for granted renders me woeful.
Be a man, Dad said. He didn’t tell me;
a man is more than a brute facade.
I feel dead inside when she’s not by my side.
I’m at a wake shuffling to a beat,
holding her hand around a funeral home,
bidding farewell to dead assumptions.
Twitter – @AC0040
(© 2023 AC)
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