Notes of a Dirty Young Lady

I think of you often.

I have not forgotten you.

In the haze of my hay days, a fond memory floats.

Into your classroom I stumble and there is your ghost.

A book in your hand, a crook in your smile

It’s Bukowski, you say, and let’s talk a while.

The Valium “heart-cuts”, our dialogue.

Your eyes like moonlight through the fog.

My words then unspoken haunt me each day.

I am now sorry for what I did not say.

Because it’s different now.

You’re with someone now.

She’s blonde, she’s “your age,” whatever that means;

I must confess–I want to scream.

Well, my shit’s not together, and hers probably is.

You two are together and that’s just how it is.

I bet she reads the directions then follows them through.

I bet she is nothing like me, but I’m sure she loves you.

I bet she hates fighting and I bet she cries and knows how to.

I bet she folds her and your laundry and I bet she knows how to.

I bet she sleeps well at night, and I hope you do, too.

I bet she has no idea how lucky she is to be with you.

This cinematic phantasm of you smiling at me plays, then rewinds,

then repeats perpetually in the camera of my mind.

It’s too easy to see– oh, your hands, crooked grin, and oh, your eyes.

You make my blood boil and we would collide,

flesh and bone splitting down to the seams.

And yet, I just love the ghost of you haunting my dreams.

Alone, my hands stroke my hips as I think of your lips,

Down my neck, down my back, and then I’ll unzip…

Down, down, down and I dream

that you taste like berries and cream.

Down on my knees and you remind me

That all I’ve missed truly is your company.

Dust off the glitter and it is not limerence,

But a longing still for more than it is.

The things we didn’t do and should have done.

Yes, this hurricane started turning when I was too young.

I am tired now of not living my life,

So, here’s to you.

May my words make you smile.



adult blur books close up
Photo by Pixabay on

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