Good Mourning Rituals







I sigh
Into your cup of liquid beans
I brew for your soul every morning
Before you drift
Out of my arm’s length
Seep through the splinters of our wooden home
And mingle with the air of the soulless you call “work”.
All the while I hope the moment
My dark-roasted forlornness
Reaches your tongue,
It brings back wistful images of my taste upon your mouth
And you wish to settle nowhere else
But in my heart

But maybe the coffee is too hot
And sears your tasting buds to my
Aromatic flavor…

Or maybe you only care to thank me
For the deliciousness of my yearning
With a kiss…

Still…

I bleed and weep
Upon your Venetian red and gray, silk noose
As I twirl and twist it around your elongated neck every morning
Before you liquefy
And drip through the rotting floorboards of our wooden home
To pour yourself into the sea of sin you call “overtime”.
All the while I hope my wound and gloom
Saturate your freshly pressed, stiff-collared skin,
Permeates your pores
And revitalizes your fading, azure-veined heart,
And that you wish to roil and ebb nowhere else
But upon my shore

But maybe the blood coagulates
Once it leaves my shell and cannot bleed
Into you…

Or maybe you only care to thank me
For reactivating your inner being
With a pat on the head…

Still…

I sing
A requiem into the creased libido
Of your starched pants I press every morning
Before you evaporate
Through the fractured window of our wooden home
To float into the foggy heavens of faithlessness you call “a wrong number”.
All the while I hope my reverberating tunes
Crescendo through your threaded impotence
And lift your manhood to the heights
It once rose for me,
And that you wish to dissolve nowhere else
But my empyreal sky

But maybe I am a dissonant clash
To the smooth texture
Of your slacks…

Or maybe you only care to thank me
For serenading your male ego
With a smile…

Still…

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