Just a tired old man, of thirty two.
Warm whiskey in every sip, hugging something
that's long gone.
The note on the dirty napkin she left said
"Why'd you even come back?
You knew I loved him the day we met."
The wind howls all her lies, time and again.
He takes another drink,
Continuing his dance at the edge of the flames.
Knowing he's done been burned.
It's that damn cold that gets him, moving slower, hurting longer.
His mind manufactures warmer weather down in Mexico.
That snow outside his door don't melt with a heart as cold as hers.
All those lies and a gutted life.
And another drink, and another, and another.
His fooled heart just can't thaw this one out.
He stumbles through the snow.
Filled with thoughts of a woman who loved the words letting go.
His mind captures her eyes as he sleeps in the unforgiving cold.
Wishing he could dream, but all he sees is that marooned smile.
copyright 2015 salvador cordova
No comments:
Post a Comment