The Night We Split

Break ups suck, don't they? I mean, there are almost NO stories about breakups that go smoothly, parting as friends, see ya 'round, wanna meet my friend?

Most breakups involve tears, anger, recriminations, harsh words, cussing and the occaisional mean-spirited jab, right where it hurts.

It's been a long time for me personally, but I still recall how it feels, or at least, how it felt to me.

This piece is about one such breakup, oh, mid-twenties or so, when the obvious solution is to pick up smoeone else just as deperate and continue as if nothing happened.


Trying hard not to remember, I drink.
Plotting my course by the unsteady shadow I cast,
I leave the bar, my head beating like a heart.
I walk, drunkenly, until I can walk no more;
then I drink.
Steel encases the heart and chest,
to prevent breaking,
while warmth enough to fight the cold
pretends to live within me.

The buzz passes quickly,
more quickly than I’d like;
dying faster than a politician’s popularity.
It hits the head first, making me
judge and slap-happy jury,
with the dangerous executioner
nowhere to be seen.
I recall every joke, tall tale, and line of crap
that I came armed with,
a sloppy parody of charm.

From there it fogs, eyes seeing only the resplendent.
Emboldened by light I press on.
My gifts are a tongue that cannot be tied,
a point of view unlike the norm,
and a singularity of purpose.

There is nothing like
my own name
whispered hot and salted
into my ear
to make me forget why I hurt,
or at least forget why I cared.
I lose myself in perfumed flesh.

The hardest part of not recalling
what you want to consign to oblivion
is forgetting
that you do not want to remember.

Originally Published in "Grief Tattoos" - get the Kindle edition HERE

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