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.