The Dagger of the Past
They say the only way
to forget a woman
is to put her to writing.
So I write here today.
What can I say?
Am I suppose to lie?
Am I suppose to say how horrible she is?
Am I suppose to treat her like a ghost of christmas past?
Or am I to be honest?
To tell how it really happened?
What good will that do?
Won’t that make me remember?
Tall. She was taller than me.
With ebony hair when she called my name.
As flat and straight as the world in 1492.
Now i’m just a face in a sea, and she doesn’t live by the sea.
Her eyes were daggers
aphotic and whetted.
Meant to pierce
with uncompromising scrutiny.
But they did more than jab in and out.
The tip broke off in my chest
creating a permanent soft spot in her eyes for me
and an ache in my heart for her.
As the years grew old
and fate tugged at my shoulder
I yearned for a first kiss farewell
To keep the shard in place forever.
As the distance grew farther
between Her and I
Time did not approve
Of my accidental transplant.
It pulled and it yanked
pulling one stitch at a time.
and as the years went by
The shard became all but free.
Years of pulling and tugging
time grew weary and left me
to pull the shard out
all on my own.
I thrashed and I sobbed
as I pulled my hardest
And the shard flew out
and I was finally free.
But I picked up the shard
and brought it home
and locked in a lead box
My kryptonite sealed away.
But every so often
I pull out the box
and open it up
to remind myself of what once was.