The Crying Sort
On a dry, summer day,
ridin’ back from the Laundromat with Reneé,
she’s got words in her mouth
that she’ll choke on if they don’t come out:
“Something died when you came west –
your malcontent, your empty threats
had me awake watching you sleep,
both of us dreaming ‘bout who I used to be.
You’re in pain; you’re not alone,
But you aren’t who I got to know.
Something changed. I’ll set you free.
Please don’t pretend you still love me.”
Took the air right from my lungs
like God takes youth from the widowed young.
I never was the sort to cry
before I watched my life die.
And she asked me not to leave
until she had what she would need
from her new friends at the winery –
the sort of support to help her get over me.
She made some calls and began to cry.
Said she loved me and said goodbye.
And she told me when I grew up,
she’d have me back and return her love.
But words don’t match the heart;
not when it’s prying itself apart
from an undetected affliction;
from a dark and lonesome addiction.
We switched roles. I took her pain.
Melded it with sorrow and shame.
I recreated the angel of my dreams
so that her sweetness could haunt my sleep.
Took the air right out my lungs
like God takes youth from the widowed young.
I never was the sort to cry
till I watched my life die.
My friend tells me she’s fine;
lives in the city, still sells wine.
She had a view of our favorite bridge
an hour south of where we used to live.
I was that bridge; I had her eye -
engrossed with me no matter who passed by.
But as the fog lifted and disintegrated above the bay,
she yearned for the mystery, and, at last, looked away.
Copyright © Victor Dixon | Year Posted 2011
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