Friday, August 14, 2009


At the stage of tired where I
am limp, muscles sapped of any
power, mind quieted,
spent post-desire and
ready to lay my
head on your lap, close
my eyes and listen.
Tell me a story about today,
about the past, about our loving.
I am too tired to search your
Coruscant eyes for hidden truths
and lies.

So tired that the inner voice that
Questions me, outraged,
(In the voices of my mother and
ex husband)
about just what the HELL
I think I'm doing? has gone on
Break, subdued by the search for an inner
well of energy. That Starbucks is closed, and
for the moment, that cold logic is
rendered vestigial, and I,

Stroke my hair, let me rest, and I
Will resume my subservience,
My cynicism, and my safe distance

1 comment:

  1. I feel bad taking inspiration from such exquisitely wrought angst, but your amazing poems do linger on my mind and cause me to step up my own efforts. More, please...