Christopher P. P. White
Per Minute - Poem by Christopher P. P. White
I wake up to an empty bed;
White crumpled sheets and her smell
That lingers like a thousand roses
On a summer's breeze.
It has been
Hours since she left and I still
Miss her beautiful body
The whisky bottle is glass and no more;
The lengthy night was full of joy
Or pain, I'm having some trouble
Remembering but I don't feel
Much right now—just a bear
With a sore head.
I sit up and peruse over the
Shithole of an apartment.
The clothes on the floor are
Just my own. She must have left for
Her dead-end job as a receptionist.
That's what she told me anyway.
Tight pencil skirt and black lace blouse—
Perfect for a place in my imagination.
I look back at the bed and remember
Us there, our bodies
Lying together, talking about nonsense
Whilst I adored her hourglass physique with
My sensitive gaze.
Her button nose and
Blue eyes like marbles glistening
In the midnight shine.
Peachy skin, naked, grazing my
Course embrace and my
Morning glory; God, I wish she
Didn't have a life, like me.
Every day would be full of purpose
If we could only reside here
Like John Lennon and Yoko Ono,
Minus the grand gesture.
I've been thinking about it all
And I'm going to ask her
To marry me. We were meant
To exist together;
We are the ocean, we are the stars,
We are what the unlucky ones
Crave. We are unique—
I love her.
When she comes back to me
I will ask her, I will make
Her the happiest girl.
Until then, I will hold myself in my hands
And admire her photograph,
(The one with her in nothing but
Stilettos and red lipstick)
Whilst praying that she
Wasn't just a phone number
In the back of a seedy magazine.
Nightmares like this don't
Come around that often;
We were meant to be and
A thousand dirty pennies
Won't change a thing.
The lady on the other end of the phone
Hangs up—I bet she gets this a lot.
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