Like Clove
Around one I hoped you would be the last to leave.
I had never talked to anyone like this, like we did,
and you were still there at two. I watched as you
quickly gathered your things, girlfriends tugging.
Longing in your eyes as we shook hands?
A feeling of not wanting to open mine ever again.
When I finally did, there was your scarf left behind,
and me wanting to hang myself with it. Fearfully,
the myth of you mingled with this scent of clove.
Thread and fiber I shall keep, one day wrapping
the back of your neck and drawing to my lips
yours. Giving to you what is not mine anymore.
© Ciprianowords Inc. 2008
1 comment:
Zounds, cipriano! I am so there in this poem. . . (or rather I wish I were.)
Literally.
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