Are these memories
My Writing My Poetry
born from the woes infesting my mind
these blood stained memories
I attempt to forget
and I attempt to forget remembering,
yet your demonic eyes
your staining eyes
like blood upon my clothing
burrows beneath my skin
bores into my heart
and breaks past my veil of ignorance.
Your eyes exhume my memories
the ones with in the sepulcher
beneath the weathered tomb stone
with no flowers to decorate the grave.
They puncture my heart like needles of ice
from the piercing rain
drenching the soft dirt
and cascading from my eyes.
The ice doesn't melt
as scarlet seeps from the wounds
the blood saturates into the seams of my white shirt
soaking me in my own blood
as punishment for remembering.
It was late and I felt disgusting and vile and so stiff. I unlocked the door expecting to find the apartment dark and lonely with you off in bed, ready to prepare for your early-morning, radio-host job.
The living room light was on, and there you were, book embracing your chest, lying with your glasses still on on the couch asleep. There were two glasses of wine on the coffee table, one smeared slightly with a smudge of lipstick and one untouched, left for me. Your mouth was slightly open and I smiled, sitting down in the arm chair besides you.
You waited up for me, failed and fell asleep. You waited for me though. The sweetest notions are the one of selfless intent or the most selfish of all. I’m glad you wanted to see me. I took a swig of the wine, placing both your glasses and book, making sure to keep the page even though you’d probably have to go back a couple to even recall what had just happened, on the coffee table and carried you bridal style to our room. You groaned slightly, but remained limp and almost dead like in my arms.
At that sudden realization, my heart spend and I panicked yet still tucked you calmly into bed. I began putting on my pajamas and ruffling the sheets as I entered beside you, “Andrew?” You questioned groggily, rolling slightly to the side in attempts to face me even with closed eyes, “I waited for you.”
“I know. I know.” I hushed, smiling and kissing your forehead.
“I wanted to talk and see you. We never get to do that anymore.” The smile slightly faded as you instinctively curled in next to me, and I drew in your scent of fresh lavender laundry detergent.
I began playing with small strands of your hair, lingering my fingers on the base of your hair line and neck, allowing you to drift off into sleep, “We will. I love you, Marie.”
Except I knew that when I woke up in the morning you wouldn’t be there, and this bed would be cold without you, but your radio station was programed to wake me up so I would at least be awoken by the sound of your voice.