They say that time and space
can heal everything
so I bought a train ticket
for my broken heart and
set it loose to see the world.
The hurt began to ebb
as I watched the last train car
fade into the distance and
from time to time I will
get postcards from my heart-
it never stays anywhere for long.
It goes where it wants
when it wants and I
was never very good at letting go
so I am very happy to know
that it is doing so well on its own.
He was sleek and beautiful
like a loaded gun
and as such he was only
dangerous when someone
pulled the trigger.
But darling give
your pretty head a shake
someone will always
pull the fucking trigger
a loaded weapon is not love.
He was a boat maker in torn blue jeans
and she, a shipwreck in red lipstick.
He would lovingly bend the boards
and she then ripped apart the planks.
He used the gentleness of his nature
and she was powerless to the storm of hers.
The boat it floated though it creaked
and filled with water on every sail.
They knew it would end in beautiful disaster
but until then any day on the ocean
was a good one.
I can’t pull my hand from the flame
no matter how badly I get burned
and I should have known better since
I heard that you were the goddamn
Prometheus of breaking hearts
but I hope someday I’ll learn that
where there’s smoke there’s fire
and any love worth possibly having
won’t make you sift your heart from the ashes.
The only way that I can describe
a woman like her is to say
that she reminded me of a
ballerina dancing in a minefield
her performance was a manipulation.
I watch her slip into her pointe shoes
(not comfortable but they accentuate
her legs to a particular advantage)
and she wipes make up across her face
until she is perfectly in character.
She dances without looking at her feet
her chin up and every movement is specific
solely executed to get something that she wants
and most of the time she does not realize
how close she is to detonating the mines.
I wonder if it is all worth it;
the practice and commitment to her character
when I know she could find actual love without
having to create a façade she thinks the
audience wants instead.
I watch from balcony seats and the spotlight
focuses on her as she leaps and she spins
and the ticketholders in their finery lean forward-
gasping as the ballerina loses track of steps and music
we know that the finale is always an explosion.
(image courtesy of https://capstonerealty.wordpress.com)
There is a song I hear from time to time, blasting from some low riding sports car being driven by a guy with too much gel and too few brain cells and I’m seventeen again in Spain, dancing in that club and sneaking highballs- letting the pulse of the music drive our bodies together.
Another song reminds me of being barefoot in the beach house and the smell of rain and earth and the ocean was perfume on my skin. I couldn’t find socks and the hardwood was cool and refreshing as I danced.
The songs that I play late at night echo of the nights I spent next to you in the dark, when I would wonder how I could feel so lonely with a heart beating so close to mine.