Sunday, July 6, 2014
French Door Lesson (you were told)
Written staring through the slats of splintering french doors just before dawn one hateful Southern morning. It was wonderful. There was tea.
FRENCH DOOR LESSON (you were told)
I told you so.
Only two things on earth are so cold and vain
they aim to make you think of them as they hurt you:
and I told you so.
(They frequently travel together.)
I hate the words.
They're the only hate left burning in an aging chest.
I'm too old to ache for more than one thing at a time anymore,
and I don't want to think that hard
about something that's hard enough.
They put fishhooks in your gums,
and you can't turn a head to argue.
You were wrong.
You were so very wrong
that someone else saw it coming
while your back was turned,
and you didn't bother
to watch their eyes.
(C) Kimberly Kaye 2014