It's not too late to exhale

 

You said that you don't think

we're going to get out of here

Alive

It will take everything we have

just to Scrape by

Because this town is rotting

around the edges

 

And you saw a man the other day

that clutched his chest, cried out

Oh, what did he pray?

With that one last

Painful breath

 

The last thing that he saw

on the pavement was

his own

Silouhette

 

 

And yeah I'd watch your

 cigarrette

burning, sickly sweet,

That toxicity

against

my throat

 

I couldnt speak

 

And my eyes would drop,

 lowering against electric light

seeping, warmly around

the cracks

 

Then your voice would come,

 low and suttle,

drifting with those

melancholy tones

As you strummed

so lightly, sinking,

swimming in your

 melodies

 

I felt safer in that

moment, with

weary eyes and

melting hands

your silouhette against the back

of my mind

 

And then to wake in the darkness,

cool and black,

with your arm heavy

against my soothing breast

 

 

Smooth, olive flesh

I could always hear your heart

skipping beats,

the hum of our lungs

in sync

 

These images are written in my memory

 

 

Author's Note

Another unfinished poem...woe to me.

Reviews

[benzohol]

And then to wake in the darkness,
cool and black,
with your arm heavy
against my soothing breast

Do you have soothing breasts?

[Bard Constantine]

Doesn't feel unfinished at all. Most poetry lives in a singular moment anyhow... no true beginning or end. This is passionate and dreamlike, a bittersweet sigh of a poem...

[Nothing Personal]

If this is unfinished, Then i dont want it to be finished. It is not always about ending ( some poems are better unfinished) but often about the process and the flow..So interesting, you talk of a decadent town, i relate it to man's decay and stagnation with time except your silhouette. Its feels pretty good. Great write...