You pluck the jet black fibers of curl that unexpectedly fell to rest,
Off the soft beige sofa pillow where we used to caress,
You run your hands over granite counter tops,
where I poured you a still golden wine,
You briskly wipe over the memory,
so you don’t have to wait on time.
You think of my words but
gladly mangle them all up.
You quickly shower again
to forget how I touched.
You grab onto the next one,
supposedly, she’s a sure fire thing.
You’re bent on replacements,
But confess you’re just losing.
Copyright © 2012 Nichelle Calhoun