Coffee Table Books

Manuscripts with their jolly and vibrant colors

There are more coffee table books

than happy memories

in that place.

Manuscripts with their jolly and vibrant colors,

begging those who pass time on the beige couch there

to see, to read,

to look at their shiny, captivating images.

They are a distraction

from the stony silence

that envelops that living room

where very little living is done.

The home was meant to be

a shared abode

but, as fate would have it,

not by the two

who dreamed to drape themselves

in blankets of familiarity

and ease–

Those who thought they would find comfort

in the chest of the other.

One book on the table features pictures of nature,

images of green spring days,

of places to go to be at peace.

On the cover is a blooming clover field,

the type made for rest,

blooming with flowers

that call to the bees.

On the day one moved out,

taking those books on their way,

very little else changed.

The other stayed, as did the couch

as did the silence.

The one left to live there

and to find someone new to share this home with

sometimes still dreams of those clover fields

featured on the nature book cover,

hoping next time won’t be

so luck-less.


Photo by SHVETS production from Pexels

D.C.

In a heartbeat, three simple words etched themselves on my tongue

Here’s another poem that I had written just slightly earlier than “That Night” on the opposite side of the same piece of scrap paper.


D.C.



I miss sitting with you.

I remember that day, staring at the rushing Potomac before us
And how your head was in my lap.
We were surrounded by history and new experiences,
But all I could think about was you, just you.

In a heartbeat, three simple words etched themselves on my tongue
And seared the back of my throat
And crushed my chest from the inside.
I opened my mouth and said nothing.

I often wonder if I had said what I was feeling in that moment,
Would everything be different now?
Would this aching core of mine be threatening
To tear me apart with its slashing claws and gnashing teeth?

All these months later, I am stuck once more.
I keep trying to run, trying to fly,
But your gravitational pull is too strong
For me to even leave the ground.

Am I trapped by your will or my own?

Your birthday forces fresh blood
Out of the wounds you inflicted.
How can I put into words how important you are to me
Without being reduced to tears?

So again, I stay silent,
And again, I am filled with what-ifs.


Image by David Mark from Pixabay

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