Esme, The Night Does Not Need Me Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

I picked her lovely dainty hands,
And her white uniform by the sides
By the waists – I am a madman, and she
Was a modest woman
The verity is that, all in the eyes of Esme,
I have long been lost inside beads of violet,
And white wrist watch, with the long, fanciful
Lanyard across her star-kissed neck, now, abandon-hugged
And I curse the walls and doubt one God,
Every kind of God or abstractness,
For everything is as abstract as the rain
That pours in the life of the Sun,
How I disdain people, by her departure
Alone as if there is no future
In the sleeping minutes of the present

There were pretty women, even prettier,
Horribly, this does not astound me enough
To have lost my grip upon her flourishing hands
Her hands were now cold, her shoulder was sleepy
And look at her,
Strolling down the sidewalks
As I see her from afar,
From my vantage point of security,
I hate you Esme for being ebullient
In the time of our passing
Cold hearts,
Heated minds,
Loose bodies hanging by a noose
Look at you,
Why are you smiling?
And so I picked up an empty vessel,
And drank as if to drown my eyes
With acerbic hope, all kinds of hope
But still the night fades and returns
In my sleep – I needed the night,
But the night does not need me.
And look, her hands
Sullied by the daydream cycle
Tainted by the handlebars of the public
Utility vehicles and stares from cold people,
Look at them, they will never
Give her back to me.