Falling over one's feet in haste to flee
Burning cheeks, tear stained eyes. Blind.
Quickened heart racing, aching.
Pain in your chest, a million sorry excuses
In your brain.
The flower, hand picked from rows of its contemporaries
The card, hand written lines of now tacky poetry
Both crushed, discarded.
At least the Chardonnay corked in green
Shall not go to waste
That and the others, conspiring to erase
That painful moment, to fill that awkward silence
As those words slip easily into the past.
By ten o'clock, you shall be merrily pissed
Eleven, abed but sleep won't be forthcoming
The chances of dreaming too strong
And the cracks in the ceiling form ideograms of loss
While playful fingers of rain and wind
Dance over the tin roof.
What once was sanctuary is now isolation,
Would have been easier to just forget, to have made
Excuses and denied.
Denial, the weapon of the hopeless, the shield
But it's too late
The blunder has been made
Time only goes forward, but memories remain,
To leap unbidden in those quiet moments
Haunting wraiths that force you again and again
To watch the dagger fall
How soothing, then, the midnight hour
The rose, hand picked, now dashed to pieces,
The note and its hasty verse ashes in the hearth.
No more blunders you promise
Your heart now tucked securely in another layer of ice.
Until next time.