poetry 38

in the way we see everything
steeped in our losses
sour with days we'd
thought forgotten
and so unusually romantic
as is every broken heart

the night makes promises
the morning never keeps
under rumpled sheets
between tried bodies
quiet sobs search the
silence for moments
that were missed

in fits of futility
as soiled as pleasure
sorrow becomes vision
and we can see in the darkness
obsessed with a future
we can only see through
hope's too perfect
binoculars

scribbling on the shadows
in palettes of sweat
colors she imagines
when none are present

eyes wide open
to see the nothingness
between her legs

not a word to say
or fool to write of
now that she can see
what never was