Cracked open like a jar of peanut-butter,
the mind is emptied
With a certain medicative methodism
That would be habitual,
were it done more frequently.
A few things escape,
Like the shopping list left behind on the coffee table
Or the milk that was to be purchased.
So many other things, which were only just things really,
Seem to linger like the plague.
Old telephone numbers cling to the crevices,
Rotting away with the names of former lovers
And something that once resembled guilt.
A constant ticker tape of obligations and responsibility
Clicks as it spits out the duties of the hour,
Constantly moving along to its unheard song
Between two unlistening ears.
In between are flashes of color,
Of autumn leaves and unseasonably bare legs
That grow goosebumps in short shorts
and a cold breeze.
Observations couple with imagination
To form shapes and sounds
And olfactory stimulation
That was never anything more
than perfume in the wind.
To finalize the transaction,
The doorway to the mind
collapses upon itself,
Smothering hot embers into nothing more
than dank smoke and steam.
As the last gasp of airflow is fused shut
By the rush of busy-ness and day to day
A single breath leaks out, that had once simmered
On the lips of a beautiful woman.
"Un besito," she had whispered passionate once,
Two words that meant more than the world.