He was into me, right?

The engaging words,

the clamping,

the anchor.

It held me, and stopped me.

Inescapable interest

pulling me in, and

playing me like a fiddle

After all, I was his fiddle.

An instrumental he refused to stop learning.

His words, dropped out his mouth,

creating a utopia of feeling.

And why wouldn’t they?

My wit, my ability to make myself a necessity.

The sex that was branded in my eyes.

He had me.

His interest, suddenly falling lose.

Could it have been me?

He penetrated my stubborn heart.

And my stubbornness, tall with her broad shoulders,


“I told you!”

And now I feel lose,

in a sense further,

and opposite

than he could ever fathom.

I detached myself

from anticipation. From hope.

So  I convinced myself.

And my lies eventually became

firm and authentic.

I was over it.

He must have felt this.

And when hope was exiled from the frame of my heart

or obliterated.

he resurfaced,

And time,

paddled back,

He said everything I wanted to hear once more,

and I let him.

Knowing his treachery.

His stealthy duplicity.

I still allowed him to enter

My tunnel of thought and feeling.

I was the repeated fool.

He ran off.

A thief, with parts of me,

stretched in his pocket.

He blew the dandelion.


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This blog is about writing (poetry in particular) and random thoughts in a nutshell

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