zebrasindenver

the cultivator of dead plants

and the painter of your naked body

a portrait of the artist as a lover

the imperfection of your body

 your tired face

the songs i listen to that we heard

and the idea that you will never

never

again speak my name

almost six years

and still that red dress

always the dark hair

and my trembling hands

that red dress, what i would not do

for that red dress

such power in all you femininity

i was just a boy lost in your love

and now i lie here a man

wishing to once again be that boy

face to face with the red dress

and a sunday morning of shaking hands

a muddled broken beautiful heart

into a decanted wine of red love and time

and the sweetest sip of perfection into your lips

a summer breeze over summer cocktails

upon the terrace of your desires

and the mornings of my clouded dreams

what tragic evening of what the fuck are you looking at

what a beautiful meal of looking isn’t giving

and giving isn’t so much as fucking

you and the way you smile at me as i sing away

any what? you say

but tonight i am before you

and i let you tell me goodbye

and goodnight

nothing more than a block of wood

to be chipped away at

to be carved in the image of another

to be shaved down to nothing

and to be left to the weather

to accumulate dust and mites

to be shaped by the wind and soil

and then to disappear back into the earth

to be forgotten

like a tree

like a heart

like another love

more scars than i

more histories to learn

this shall be my new love

this tattoo

for another fews years i will let you leave a mark

a scar

a tattoo

the chairs have all moved around this table i built

the faces are almost all the same

new boyfriends

new girlfriends

new lovers

and still i think of you

at this table i built

short blond hair

dark eyes of mine

and a history of passion

where will we lie next

broken flowers still spread pollen

as an empty glass still offers hope