she asked me
why i write the things
i tend to scribble
these sad little odes
to the moment that
dream crumbles
from the waking mind
the last slivers
still quivering
as dawn breaks the spell
of winsome longing

she phrased it
slightly differently
called most of it
‘incoherent trash’
but the feeling was there
beneath the apathy
or perhaps i simply
imagined it glimmered
in her cold disdain

i shrugged
tried my best
roguish smile
‘i just write
what the words tell me
i dip my hands
into the run off
as the glacier
around my heart melts
and pluck whatever
shimmering silver
i can before
my fingers blacken
and the images
begin to fade away’

she rolled her eyes,
i assumed
she was overwhelmed
by my staggering genius
but, again
i may be coloring
the moment with my own
bountiless optimism,
and laughed before saying
‘you cook, you clean,
you write okay occasionally,
but you don’t lie
for shit
i think you
play the part of
the broken hearted fool
because you think
the ladies like it’

i was astounded
‘i didn’t think that
anyone actually reads it’

she patted me
gently on the head
and kissed me gently
on the cheek
‘maybe you’re just
a special kind of stupid’

that confirmed all of
my suspicions as i
brightened considerably
‘you think that
i am special’
i never saw her again
but i assume she is just
biding her time

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