Open Ended Conversation Poem by Monica O'Connor

December 5,2008

It never amounts to much.
A few words here and there,
a brush of the hand, an arm around a waist.
A half hearted, departing embrace, and a complaint.
Always a complaint. The same
Open-ended conversation, over, and over,
and over again.
No answers, ever. no answers to
all the underlying questions that just about burn the soul.
Questioning the friendship, or the lack there of.
Questioning the purpose of the night.
Constantly wondering about what would've been said
had every awkward pause and hesitation been taken away.

Turn to another and dream.
Dream of what will never be.
Look towards another and know that
hearts have bad habits.
Look towards another and know
in their arms is where you belong.

Sleep in the sweet sorrow of bad habits,
yet not forgetting the departing embrace,
and the beautiful, long awaited complaints.
Old habits die hard.
All habits of the heart do,
always bathing in the warmth,
pumping effortlessly through the veins.
They're the old addiction in the veins,
seeping back to a brush of the hand,
while dreaming of the arms
in which you wished you belonged.