Miranda's Blues
For weeks, I cried myself to sleep
While my prince charming was snoring gracefully beside me.
And those were the better weeks.
The good ones quickly followed,
In a rather orderly fashion
With dinner parties and cocktails,
And barbeques, and “the boys are coming over to watch the game hon”
The bad ones, came with a promotion, a corner office with a panoramic view and “don’t wait
up” phone calls.
The worse ones, I expected.
And when they came, they weren’t all that bad.
They came in fancy suits, a settlement, and a fat alimony.
These days I spend a lot of time trying to remember,
a shipwreck,
a game of chess,
a promise…
It is so odd, I feel I am supposed to remember something
but I am not sure what
or why.
And what of this man I dream at nights?
He’s standing on some distant shore,
His body’s bent
His arms thrown by his side
He does not move
Nor wave
Till he becomes a blurry dot in the horizon
And then a cry.
I wake up drenched in sweat, shaking, almost terrified
That desperate, piercing, soulful cry
So sharp, so deep, so purifying!
But was it his, or mine?
Copyright © Giota P | Year Posted 2006
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