cigarette constellations on a coffee table

The sun has been waking up on the same side of the bed for years  
screaming its hello through the window    
to fall on the pillow where your memory lies  
imprinted in the dancing sunlit dust    
There’s a satin stiletto in the fruit bowl where you left it  
surrounded by the invisible bones of apples I watched waste away    
like the illusion of happiness I used to wear as I took a bite  
out of your mouth, your eyes, your soul    
and called it love    
My face still wears the ashtray I threw at the wall    
my bloodied hands doing all I could to hold myself together  
beneath your whiskey words    
that were nothing more than the exhale of my own whiskey’d breath    
I meant every word I said and they meant nothing at all    
I lie beneath the clear laminate coffee table and trace the pattern    
of cigarette burns, trying to find your face in the burnt constellation    
as though the memory of your ruthlessly tender hands in my hair will look different    
when viewed from a different angle    
The more I try to keep you here, the faster you fade away    
and the crooked photos on the wall are pictures of strangers  
my reflection in the mirror devoid of naïve idealism    
and the romanceless promises of a failed love    
The sun has been waking up on the same side of the bed for years    
screaming its hello through the window    
and it’s my fault for not closing the curtains    
getting up and setting your memories alight in the fruit bowl    
that once contained the apples of our misery    
© Indie Adams 2012
Written by Indie (Miss Indie)
Published | Edited 14th Oct 2012
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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