Sunday, December 20, 2015

romanticizing her

this one time
she asked me why
I do not romanticize
her alcoholism
like I do with her hazy
yet colourful eyes

and why I do not
write about the days
in which she
hadn't had any sleep;
her periorbital dark circles
and her unkempt curls

she complained,
at a bar
having a beer with me,
how her image in my poems
reads her love of the wild,
the mountains and the trees,
but not of her love
of Jack Daniels
straight from the bottle

and she was cross
by the fact that
I avoid her falling apart life
and her bits and pieces
love life, in my poems
to focus on her
heart and her hips and her smile
and her paintings and
those short poems
she writes

and all I could do
was to absorb it in
and listen while she spoke,
for there was so much about her,
beautifully wrecked,
that my pen struggled
to put down on paper

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