|My Bed by Tracey Emin|
Legs unstable, threatening to buckle
underneath my weight but I’m frozen.
I imagine your face, nose scrunched up,
disgusted I’ve lived among this clutter.
You’re not here though.
Not here to talk me out of one more drink.
I have turned to smoking again.
There is something about a cigarette
when you first light it, a smell
of promise surrounds you.
Afterward when it’s only the butt
put out among ashes,
the stale aroma of broken promises
I suppose our love was like a cigarette.
I still want you even though the end is bitter.
Believe I’ll curl back in my queen size bed
to drink, smoke, put your photos away,
and let my mind rest.
donetta sifford 3-26-2014
Written for: The Mag 212