Your old love songs were once
our tapestry;
our fireplace always flaming;
...
Disintegration
Your old love songs were once
our tapestry;
our fireplace always flaming;
binding us together as
one hand, or one home,
but as with the fizzle of a
lightbulb before it blows, they now
become an awry jukebox,
playing misfit tunes;
the TV static between angry lovers
and empty beds
with their sheets unkept.
Love now, is like salt,
the slick drag of a cigarette
you last draw before
stamping the butt with your heels
Or perhaps, a bloodied lovebite
on your neck. No more
Cheesy late-night movies
Or shirts strewn on the floor
But love remains to be
The warm hue of a refrigerator
What still nudges and pulls
In this heartfelt game that ended in blues