“You’re no good for me.”
she laments with a smile
as I roll off of her,
huffing and puffing
like the big bad wolf, naked
except for the sheep’s clothing.
She’s right, though, I’m no good.
Her caked make-up turns to dust
at the corners of her mouth
where her smile used to reach,
eyes searching for a reason to leave.
No good. The feeling is mutual.
I should’ve cut myself loose,
caught that flight back to New York
and left all this squalor behind.
Her longing hands took mine, pulling
me back to her under the guise of romance.
I was in love until the boredom hit.
The Kitchen is filthy.
I can hear her packing up as I snatch
a glass from the cabinet, ice cubes clinking
against the crystal, muffling
the clip-clop of her high heels.
The whiskey drowns the ice cubes,
crackling like an extinguished fire
as they break down to water.
Time to say goodbye.
I walk past the mirror
and catch a glimpse of Charles Bukowski
smiling back at me, yellowed teeth
and weathered skin giving me a wink,
content to chase the unattainable.
I raise my glass and toast
the disheveled man in the mirror.
He’s not as despicable as I remember.
Stuck in Christmas Past
Each detail of your memory haunts my subconscious.
The ghost of your voice, soft, tender, and tragic,
echoes off the walls in my mind.
The smell of your mango detergent,
a ghost clinging to the threads of the quilt
you sewed for me with your bare hands.
The ghost of your figure,
tight jeans scaling the mountain of your legs,
smooth and gracious as silk as you wiggle
until they reach the summit’s tippy-top,
finally coming to rest when the jeans drop anchor,
floating at peace adrift your lower back,
stretching at the seams to shroud your salacious,
magnetic hips from the eyes of less worthy men.
The ghost of your warm skin against mine,
shoulder blades resting on my chest,
sopping up the beads of sweat running down your neck,
fueling the fire started by the spark
of your body’s sugary friction
against mine on freezing winter nights.
I dream of these sensations every night,
waking up caressing the ghost of your memory,
whispering to the past,
and I know I was alive,
at least for a little while.