CatfishRivers
Bluelight Crew
- Joined
- Jan 26, 2004
- Messages
- 2,180
...twenty years from now you
will be on your knees rummaging
through boxes of junk on your closet floor, desperately
hunting for the cookbook with the recipe
for the beef burgundy he often complains
you never make but hardly seems to appreciate
with anything more than a heartfelt belch. And perhaps
while sifting through brown paper shopping bags
stuffed with chintzy see-through curtains left unhung
and boxes of gold-plated silverware and maybe
even a dust encrusted wedding album, you will come across a dated
shoebox filled with letters I scribbled to you on white
line notebook paper which had been lost
in the dust of years in the rush of moving on.
Perhaps you will find them and remember
everything and maybe you will even utter my name
aloud, but in a whisper, careful not
to wake the baby. And perhaps then you too
will lie stone-still on a cold slab of bedding waiting for:
the faucet to quit its incessant drips, those magical words
that will set straight your every mistake, your
antacid to soothe your splitting stomach-
ache, an earthquake, your body
to spontaneously combust in an abrudt eruption
of blue flames, the heat
to finally kick in, the church bells
to chime, the end of the world, or just
anything that will quiet the name
that is ringing in your ears before
the sun summons your restless
bones back to life.
will be on your knees rummaging
through boxes of junk on your closet floor, desperately
hunting for the cookbook with the recipe
for the beef burgundy he often complains
you never make but hardly seems to appreciate
with anything more than a heartfelt belch. And perhaps
while sifting through brown paper shopping bags
stuffed with chintzy see-through curtains left unhung
and boxes of gold-plated silverware and maybe
even a dust encrusted wedding album, you will come across a dated
shoebox filled with letters I scribbled to you on white
line notebook paper which had been lost
in the dust of years in the rush of moving on.
Perhaps you will find them and remember
everything and maybe you will even utter my name
aloud, but in a whisper, careful not
to wake the baby. And perhaps then you too
will lie stone-still on a cold slab of bedding waiting for:
the faucet to quit its incessant drips, those magical words
that will set straight your every mistake, your
antacid to soothe your splitting stomach-
ache, an earthquake, your body
to spontaneously combust in an abrudt eruption
of blue flames, the heat
to finally kick in, the church bells
to chime, the end of the world, or just
anything that will quiet the name
that is ringing in your ears before
the sun summons your restless
bones back to life.
Last edited:
