you left me like a
with a chalk line
on my bed sheets
sometimes I dust for your fingerprints
but I only find my own
I stuck a poem on my wall, on the fraying yellow wallpaper,
when he told me I did not understand the meaning of poetry,
because I entitled my poem, ‘Patience is Boiled Eggs’;
these words, that slosh like wine from my swaying arms
when I am tipsy, dribble from my fingers,
it’s a strange sort of dexterity - stringing necklaces made out of words,
like rosaries of broken language;
I trip and stumble on syllables, painting my thoughts an inky hue,
brushstrokes of vermilion, umber and pink at dawn, but in my mind,
it’s always night.
Patience, however, patience is a boiled egg,
peeling the shell, stabbing the heart,
patiently waiting for death.
Okay, I have a plan. Are you ready?
Pick me up bright and early in the morning.
I’ll bring the coffee. You can bring
the playlist. We’ll ask Siri where skin is
and how to get there—I have a feeling
it’ll be a long drive. When we finally arrive
we will yawn and stand and stretch our sticky…
All my hands know to write about
is love and all my fingertips want is you
and what a paradox it is how two things
so close can be so far from view.
valentina thompson (via theseoverusedwords)