Front Porch

Each night I venture out, I bring my heart in my hands,
cocktail and smoke too; they make room for the
beating, wounded bird.
Near death but she resiliently persists.
I’m not sure how.
I don’t know why, after all
you’ve yet to show.
Each night, I don’t realize the candle’s still lit.
Burnt so low it’s nearly gone, a pathetic puddle of a swan song.
But still I stand, I sit, I exist
somewhere in between 
the sides of my head, while my thoughts serenade me with empty lies,
about love, and longing, and lust — I don’t cry, not anymore, but I take
Drag after drag, watching the cars pass by,
wondering which one holds the idea of you.
Maybe you’ll stop this time? Maybe you’ll finally see
what stands, who sits, patiently awaiting an alibi.
I imagine what I’ll say–
something righteous? Gracious? —
when you come back my way.
A joke? A curse? A stoic silence as 
Our eyes meet,
when the smoke rolls over my cheek, slips out my empty lips,
parted, ready to speak?
I think I’ll say, “You’re late.”
Or not. Because what remains true–
You’re not really you. And besides,
I have plenty of time
to refine my line(s).
Until then,
Until then…
I sit, smoke in hand. Breathing out… 

Current Jam: “Bleeding Out” Imagine Dragons

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