a message for you
A/N: The you in this poem is supposed to masculine. So, if you look at it through that angle, this poem is slightly homosexual. But blink, and you'll miss it.
The lipstick traces on your cup
and the blond hairs still sticking to the fabric of the sofa
without a doubt, from her.
The nail polish traces covered by remover on your coffee table
the stain still on your carpet.
It didn't occur to you until now
that your books are thumbed through by fingers other than
Ah. Epiphany, or not. Depending on how you look at it.
It's the right time for hysterics.
And nonetheless, looking for his number
in the fragments of paper left behind
strewn to your pockets.
You have his number memorized in your head
looking for it gives you reason and purpose. The handful
of forgotten notes in your pocket lined with blue lint.
a number is formed
with pencil shaking against equally empty paper. What
he has given you is a portal to another emptiness as blank as your own.
e. e. cummings
can touch your soul- how spritual-
is the way his phone number looks
on lined paper stained with the remains of coffee tears.
loneliness a leaf falls
and you are left with a telephone and a crumpled piece of paper
that simply parrots what you already know.
Maybe this time he'll pick up
it's stupid of you to think that way
he's always there
he just lets the phone ring
cause like you he's got problems misery pathos tragedy
none of you would know what to say if
he did pick up.
So you let the phone ring
an endless rejection on your ears
like twilight on an october day
with nothing but a shell of a blonde trying to gain life
from an alcohol bottle.
God. The answering machine never picks up.
You can recite what the message-
"Hello. You have reached the phone of-"
will say but you listen-
"I'm not home right now to pick up but-"
anyway because it's his voice, even-
"a message, and I'll call as-"
if it's just a recorded one.
It's a good thing that
your messages can be infinitely long
because you have a tendencey to babble about the stupidest
things until you reach a point
so divergent from your original one that you're not sure
why you called in the first place.
he's listening. He's always listening
it's not like he's not there
but sometimes you want him to pick up
and most of the time you don't.
He lets you talk about
and good times
and what you want to do this summer
and your relatives
and the blonde
and all the while you think you can hear his breathing on the other end
ragged and breathless and full of ashes.
It could be your imagination.
you start thinking you like to call him just because you like the sound of your own voice.
But what you're really craving for
is the rich chocolate texture of his
like an addict longing for his drug.
he knows that this thing-
whatever you feel
when you dial the numbers blazed across your mind
even though you're thinking about his eyes
and the curve of his ears-
has its roots deep
but you're afraid to tell him how deep.
Like a grass blade that's stuck inside a garden
except now the garden's overgrown with roots.
End with a little tidbit
on your vacation to chicago coming up
in your head you hear a sound like you're screaming that you-
but you hang up anyway.
And rest your head against the sofa cushions
that are deviod of anything
but stillness and strands of blonde hair.
A/N: A story told, a story very _badly_ told, but hey, I tried. You got this far, reviews please?