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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
...because coffee feels like cheating

Submitted: May 12, 2008

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Submitted: May 12, 2008



We shall call him Possibility.
He never spoke his name,
though he made a point to say hers
matter-of-factly many times,
as if he were folding it into
memory to be looked upon again,
when the kids had gone to bed
and attachment seemed less confining.

She talked easily about herself,
her children, her life,
her resemblance to a married woman.
She blushed quietly when he asked
her out for coffee, noting the
likeness of their faces in shadows
of dim light and mild truths.

Where are they now,
those moments we stole and fit
into the seams of our pockets
with spare change we won't admit
to having if someone were to ask.
When the day has become still,
they rally together,
rising up much as a soul would
if asked to become something
more than it's able of being.
Metaphor draws in close,
as if hypothetical change
and moments captured in a
hypothetical pocket could so
closely adhere themselves to hope.

I drink my coffee, alone,
gray ghosts trail silently
from my lips where intimacy
used to gather in the subtle shift
of noontime to evening when
conversation came undigested.
I bow down to hear the dry cough
of what life remains here.

But what light will rise up this day?
Will the draft of non being catch
unannounced in a stray bit of glossy
recollection and beckon me?
Only an empty soul can remain
within it's grave of walls where dust
is content to bide itself unstirred,
never to be transformed into
a small glimpse of possibility
in the hours of morning's prime.

Mild truths prefer dim shadows
where daydreams are the blisters our
tongues become fraught with.
The hoarse whisper of hope begins
to separate body and dream.
And we find ourselves ending here,
somewhere in the distance between
coffee with a stranger and the
subtle realization, this too will scar,
and the soul stirs, lending itself
momentarily to revelation.

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