4 Poems (II. The Wound)

Written on February 28, 2019

We sit together
Eating hot dogs 
Full of crunchy fresh pickle relish
Spicy ocher mustard
And crimson ketchup
on that Brooklyn bench
After wandering round Central Park.

He looks at me for the longest time and just smiles.
A simple smile, no more, no less.
His long sandy hair breezing in the wind.
His green apple eyes bear through
my every thought
telling me i'm hiding something
even though i don't want to say what's on my mind

he holds my hand, with its tarnished wedding ring
stained with blood
a ring i no longer care to think about
a ring of a love long gone
a divorce that still bears the scar of our rocky marriage
i let the tears flow calmly
i feel my body give little quakes off
as he continues to hold my hand
this gentle friend of mine
tells me that it's ok to not be ok

that everything is going to be fine
that i don't have to live with the hurt of divorce
this friend tells me in a whisper, 
that i no longer need to wait on someone to please me
romantically
and i no longer have to please anyone but myself
that i can be free of the fetters of loneliness
and enjoy the placid silence that comes with solitude
solitude = juventud
juventud = youth in Spanish.

i let the hurt wash over me
and then i inhale, my lungs taking in the crisp fall air
and i let out a long sigh that shakes
letting go of years of pain, pleasure, destruction, emotional detachment
i let this friend curl his turtle-necked arms around my neck. 
a neck that bears the burning flesh wound of emotional abuse
a wound that will take many months to heal from
a gash that bears my name, my namesake, his name, his namesake
i jokingly rub the tears into the wound at the back of my neck.

the tears are magical healing water
they are an elixir of salty and sweet
they gently kiss my broken wounds as i rub them gently on the scars 
these tear kisses gently caress these screaming wounds
and calm them so their flames don't continue to lick my neck
even as this moment of sweet, sweet bliss
only lasts for some time
before i am once again back to tasting the sweet and salty 
of fresh flowing tears.

i wake up in my own bed
the friend has gone home
i sit and look up at the ceiling
my mind is no longer racing
and even though the demons of doubt will
in any second rear their ugly demonic heads of doom
my body dragged down
by the weight of emotional depletion.

the tears are dried like 
a charcoal mask after it's done sitting on your face
on my puffy face my eyes tired
from all the tears, the crying worked
my face muscles, my eye muscles,
every muscle that waged a war in my body, worn and dragged
beat and bruised
body.
 

Author: The Arts Are Life

I am a writer and musician. Lover of music, movies, books, art, and nature. View all posts by The Arts Are Life