Monday, October 7, 2013

No Good / Stuck in Christmas Past

Conrad Schafman is from Houston, Texas.

 
No Good

 
“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.

 

 

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