All poems to ex-lovers begin, one way or another, with
I should not be thinking of you. Or, if you’re lucky,
I am glad you are dead. This one begins by pointing
that out. Now that the unpleasant is out of the way,
set in front of you and as quickly whisked away, see
how you are already beginning to forget — I must say
I walked twenty aisles in the world’s largest department
store looking for the soap you use, I must say nobody
dances like you do, and when you cut your hair short
I felt like crying. You remind me of the grade school
playground swing, not because you’re any fun or
particularly bright, but I would like to dangle my legs
from you and keep pushing toward the sky. Once
you offered me a blade of grass, when we were lying
down in a field full of blades of grass, and I took it,
that particular blade of grass, and made it whistle.
To repeat that look of pleasure on your face, to find
and hold in my hands the smell of you on a cold day,
I am not one for forgetting, as you swing lazily between
anger and erotica in my mind, toes brushing the garden,
face pointed toward the light. I am glad you are dead,
you told me. And I said, I should not be thinking of you.

Tagged ,

5 thoughts on “WCPFSBP:

  1. valentinosinverguenza says:


    • softfloors says:

      hm! you’re not just saying that? is this another case of being too kind to each other’s work? haha. šŸ™‚

  2. Rachel Vergara says:


    (not here often, but glad this greeted me)

  3. valentinosinverguenza says:

    Naku petra, pag-isipan mo. Secret … haha

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