Telling it Like it is...(I.P.)
Spring never ever came that year –
the year he left...Funny
but sometimes, I think I see him
across the street...
I run to catch him up – touch
and it’s only a stranger’s face, turns
to confront me.
Ask myself, why I keep searching –
and then I feel his hand on mine,
but, oh – those scars
are still so tender; they’ll never heal.
I hear him speak my name...
feel his lips brushing mine – then
“Lean on me...” says another.
“I’ll be your rock, and always
will be; don’t you know that?
I’d move mountains for you...
Give you the moon, if you wanted.”
“He’s a ‘brick’. You’d be a fool
to let him go,” or so they tell me.
How to tell them, our daffodils, dug
that year, didn’t bloom again this spring,
and how to tell this one, I don’t need
all his bullshit...
It’s not a rock, or a brick, or the moon
I want. Just a pillow.