Not Lost in France
Poetry
Another November.
Words scattered
like
confetti
filling
in the empty
space
where silence
crossed swords
with battling chopsticks,
your pale fingers
reaching
quickly to
snatch them
back.
Too many things
too soon,
then your inevitable
retreat
as you filled
your glass
with silent
tears
mixing them
deliciously with the
gin
and your own
ruin.
I would have kissed
your distant lips
at that
very moment
as I would a
childs
instead I scattered
my
own
confused confetti
before a frosted starlit
sky
whispered to us
both
to
say
goodnight.
like
confetti
filling
in the empty
space
where silence
crossed swords
with battling chopsticks,
your pale fingers
reaching
quickly to
snatch them
back.
Too many things
too soon,
then your inevitable
retreat
as you filled
your glass
with silent
tears
mixing them
deliciously with the
gin
and your own
ruin.
I would have kissed
your distant lips
at that
very moment
as I would a
childs
instead I scattered
my
own
confused confetti
before a frosted starlit
sky
whispered to us
both
to
say
goodnight.
