deepundergroundpoetry.com
Penultimate
I left my clothes
at the door,
because
there isn’t anything
left that you haven’t
(tasted)
(touched)
(known)
seen
I want to
make some
grandiose speech,
tell you that
it fucking sucks
that a journey
I thought would
give me a few
more years,
a few more months,
burned me alive
in weeks.
That you did that.
But I don’t care
anymore.
I don’t care
about the
journey.
I can’t remember,
anything important
beyond
these four walls,
and the
way you feel.
It’s like my
fortitude
has amnesia,
and I just want to
go back and start again,
to see if now makes
sense a second time.
Because now
doesn’t make a
lot of sense,
it just tastes
of pride;
bitter,
cold.
And there was never
anything but heat
between us.
I can’t remember
why it won’t stop
hurting.
I can’t figure out
why it’s so right
to be apart.
And all of the
background noise
is just silence,
so forgettable,
so unimportant;
I can't remember
why it all seemed
so loud.
The irony of the
queen of
never
look
back,
with a faulty
memory,
but fuck,
I can’t stop
flicking my eyes
to the rearview,
trying to remember
why you're there in the past,
instead of in the
cheap hotel up the road
waiting for me.
I can’t
remember
anything
but how much
I want you.
I want to ask
you to help me
through it.
Then I want to steal
your control
and then crumble
under your
demands
as if my
own control
were just a
passing thought.
I want to
have that moment
in the sun again;
where we’d meet
each other in the morning
and laugh about weird shit.
And I want to
grab your shirt
and tell you
one more time
to shut up and fuck me
one more time
and then one more time
and then one more.
and then…
then it crashes back down
that our unique brand
of poison
doesn’t leave
survivors.
And I can’t remember
why I’d want to survive,
without your hands in my hair,
but I guess
it’s the
right
thing.
The only thing I remember,
without a doubt
is this:
The time we shared
was precious to me
and all the time
I was dreaming
of you.
As always, love,
I’ll see you there,
in my dreams.
I’ll leave my clothes
at the door.
at the door,
because
there isn’t anything
left that you haven’t
(tasted)
(touched)
(known)
seen
I want to
make some
grandiose speech,
tell you that
it fucking sucks
that a journey
I thought would
give me a few
more years,
a few more months,
burned me alive
in weeks.
That you did that.
But I don’t care
anymore.
I don’t care
about the
journey.
I can’t remember,
anything important
beyond
these four walls,
and the
way you feel.
It’s like my
fortitude
has amnesia,
and I just want to
go back and start again,
to see if now makes
sense a second time.
Because now
doesn’t make a
lot of sense,
it just tastes
of pride;
bitter,
cold.
And there was never
anything but heat
between us.
I can’t remember
why it won’t stop
hurting.
I can’t figure out
why it’s so right
to be apart.
And all of the
background noise
is just silence,
so forgettable,
so unimportant;
I can't remember
why it all seemed
so loud.
The irony of the
queen of
never
look
back,
with a faulty
memory,
but fuck,
I can’t stop
flicking my eyes
to the rearview,
trying to remember
why you're there in the past,
instead of in the
cheap hotel up the road
waiting for me.
I can’t
remember
anything
but how much
I want you.
I want to ask
you to help me
through it.
Then I want to steal
your control
and then crumble
under your
demands
as if my
own control
were just a
passing thought.
I want to
have that moment
in the sun again;
where we’d meet
each other in the morning
and laugh about weird shit.
And I want to
grab your shirt
and tell you
one more time
to shut up and fuck me
one more time
and then one more time
and then one more.
and then…
then it crashes back down
that our unique brand
of poison
doesn’t leave
survivors.
And I can’t remember
why I’d want to survive,
without your hands in my hair,
but I guess
it’s the
right
thing.
The only thing I remember,
without a doubt
is this:
The time we shared
was precious to me
and all the time
I was dreaming
of you.
As always, love,
I’ll see you there,
in my dreams.
I’ll leave my clothes
at the door.
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