Blunders: #8 Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

“This is a dream, isn’t it? ”
She said, without fascination
And it bothered me

My waters are shaken still
The trenches sputter disdain;
She is tired of this rendezvous.

I cupped her face
To tell her things
But her eyes are closed

Her lips sealed shut
Only the distance talks
But not so much a talking.

Her hair lost its flair
And I wander over her
Poetry, her riddles.

And that is when
The silence becomes
So loud in this dire death

Or perhaps
I didn’t lose her
In this stalemate

I’m waiting
Waiting, endlessly
Waiting.