Smudge

Coffee turns to a smudge of brown

and my hands shake in the cold night air,

overlooking my smallest of kingdoms

and I wait for you; you’re always there.

You’re the indented letters on a torn-out page

in the diary I filled with a year of control,

you’re the tip of a cigarette, falling to ash;

the all-engulfing, paralysing cold.

 

Winter turns to spring, seasons pass by,

your unwelcome presence piercing through,

coffee turns to sludge in an abandoned mug,

and I sit by the window;

waiting for you.

(c) 2012.

 

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23 Comments

  1. Ahh, the obsessive compulsion to try to control something we have no control over. And, of course, the requisite coffee and cigarette as we’re being all deep and artistically profound in our wallowing. I remember that feeling!

  2. Your waiting and wanting rolled into one makes so much sense. I trust that this is worth waiting for, whether it be a thing or a person. Giving “it” such value by creating a poem about such is endearing.You have such openess and honesty that you write with.

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