Friday, March 02, 2012

The Room


I hear little drips the leaky faucet makes
amid violent silence of the passing night,

silent as blank white paper I hold
rendering my pen inutile
muted by random thoughts running in my head.

How I long for that crisp laughter once more,
or those soft murmurs of sweet nothing
you whispered in my ears
while you caressed the tiny lobes
with your soft gentle touch

I’d rather listen to your rants
with every squabble we’ve had
over the minutest details
or inconsequentials.

This room heard your moans,
these four walls saw your warm embrace
torrid kisses, and the unity of our flesh
bear witness to the ecstasy we share

is now your prison.

Not a single wall could mistake
your agony for ecstasy.
Not your closed eyes, clenched fist
or pale face. This is not what this room
is used to seeing.

I hear the leaky faucet
in time with the IV drip.

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