POEM - Panhandle St

There’s a yellow house near the corner

of Carroll Blvd and Panhandle St;

once upon this timeline of weary dreams,

that’s where the divorcee cried hardest

She looked out of tears when I met her,

and was convinced far in advance

that I wanted to fuck her best friend

Truth is, I wanted them both,

but a younger me simply assured her (honestly)

that she was who I’d rather get to know

She was always talking with her hands;

skinny little fingers attached to

a blond-haired body which I was certain

might crack like China if I touched it;

spirited though her movements so often were

The great theme of my life: I was wrong

Nothing broke when her fingers intentionally

brushed like paint-to-canvas against mine

I smoked her long-expired weed

with drug-dealt money in my own pockets

She was actually crying in front of me

when the THC carried me miles away

I know she rode me for more than 8 seconds

I know I held her for ages after

But I don’t think I ever came back to my senses

enough to convince her that one night

wasn’t all I wished to give

Thus, she haunts me

Every one of them haunt me

Waking up with a heart which wants

to make them all feel better,

yet only tending to the needs of one,

is akin to opening your arms to midnight

and pretending you’re enduring full sun

No one will ever be able to know me

so long as this world is hellbent

on coupling every moment to permanent possession

of what we all understand

is a temporary existence

I wanted so much more than to hurt her

The hurt, I fear, is all she remembers

And how did I inflict said damage,

you may be wondering?

Too often, after all, I make myself sound

nothing but well-meaning

But, while mostly true, that fails

to acknowledge how selfish each self must be

I didn’t wake up the next day,

and reach out to her with roses

I didn’t go further back in time,

and correct the lies she was telling herself

I didn’t retreat into my own infancy,

and explain that sex is only the beginning

of what I have to offer

The world goes on to sing ‘Dirty Diana’

to 10-Speed and the swaying trees

which aren’t listening;

I am somewhere else altogether,

wishing I could remember

what she talked about as she cried

If you haven’t guessed by now,

there’s no genie in a lamp to be found

But tomorrow, I will awake to find

that nearly no one is ready to accept that fact

You’ll all dance with me at a distance,

like those deathbed regrets and memories

will never be the only thing

any of us ever get to retain ownership of

Alas, the great theme of eternity:

You are wrong

Read that again