No More Games of Racquetball
Words we sallied back and forth,
I feel the burn, all right, behind my eyes;
Slow faltering motions, pained waves of sound,
Decision made, my life goes on, yet strangely dies.
Smiling my good intentions out of bounds,
Your face, you know, still does this;
Strands me childlike, lost, clinging to toys,
Praying in silence for one last kiss.
I spend my life beating on closed doors,
So sweet the hurt, I believe it's true;
Wanting you magically to open them up,
In knowing I thought the world of you.
I say I can accept things with ease,
You see me cold, I assume, I shrug it down;
Not once did you ever say how you felt,
So I wrack in the car from town to town.
With my bruised desire slapped and sober,
Was it necessary, you think, after all,
The demeaning sleep-over brush-off that
Cried: No more games of racquetball?
Perhaps we are right to claw for the embers
And kick and piss the fire out;
Until it hissed and smoked and died half death,
Leaving me decimated and still with doubt.
Copyright © Tony Bush | Year Posted 2005
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