January 22, 2015 by Wayne.
I bend to sip hot
chocolate, gloves still in place,
and the heat fogs my glasses.
The headlights outside smear
through sheets of watery glass
reflecting off glossy parkas and
undersized umbrellas, people
all a-flurry, steeped in the chill,
uggs through snowbroth,
You said you were burning up,
and wriggled out of your sweatshorts,
and drew close, and we fucked to the
rhythmic thunder, deluge spluttering
off the windowsill, worries deposited
in the overmorrow, inchoate fears
postponed to future dates,
hurrying to manufactured warmth.
I go for a refill.
Betty works the counter on Thursday evenings,
and the machines on most days, business
isn’t much usually.
She asks about you sometimes.
She has a mop of brown hair, cut sharply short,
a green dragon that sticks its tail cheekily out
past the hem of her sleeve.
never to be revisited in quite the same way.
We were at the park once, by the bench near the playground,
watching the drizzle puncture the fluorescent night,
and I asked: what if you stay on?
I guess what I wanted to ask was:
Don’t you love me?
Which would really mean:
Isn’t love enough? Enough to
absolve songs of doubt, to
feast on our offerings of
self-loathing, tithes of
anoint us with the certainty that we really fucking need right about now
Outside, the rain slows to a few final drops, heavy with hesitation and tearing against the friction of the loveless skies.