There was a text. The screen burped light that it pilfered from the morning sun. I lay in my glorified laziness, non-chalant, unaffected. I thought of his midnight texts; little ‘post its’ quoting Tennyson that he’d leave on my study. Messages on tissues he’d leave stuck between the milk cartons in the refrigerator for me to find when I woke after a night of passion as he’d already have slipped out. My legs were arched up on the wall moving like the ticking clock showing how many months had passed by.
When I was young, my bar was up and raised in the air like my nose…good sense of humor, suave, loving, understanding…the list would go on. Now all that was out of the window…I’ve come to the realization that men are just ego-testicle fools. Now my new list is as undemanding as-just two animals-jaguar in the garage and tiger in bed.
It’s simple when your head gets a grip of your reasoning. The question why is never unanswered, never a question at all. You can respond to that text as you sit at a sports bar and revel with a few friends and have a drunken karaoke while watching 11 Indian men who rise no taller than 5 feet 10 inches scamper with a ball in hand…
Yes; there are in the backward past
Soft hours to which we turn —
Hours which, at distance, mildly shine,
Shine on, but never burn
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