Lost Revival
I'm going
out
she announced
above the
din of the game,
hand on
hip
sling backs
tapping,
waiting,
for any
sign of acknowledgment,
wondering
if this
would become
another
weekend mourned,
over the
ritual.
He didn't
hear
her silent
plea,
begging
for a fresh start,
before
she left
slamming
the door,
tears trailing
memories
behind
her.
He didn't
notice
she wore
his favorite blue sweater
pulled
tightly across her chest,
barely
covering the bruises
left in
her heart;
faded after
a decade
of sunnier
days spent together;
with traces
of his old cologne
still clinging
to the soft fibers
he once
loved to caress.
He was
too busy
mentally
fondling his harem
of leggy
half time girls,
amid crumpled
beer cans
and fallen
cigarette ashes
charring
the virgin pages of his
Wall Street
Journal.
She never
knew
his blank
stare
hid a world
without her,
where he
thrived on
big deals,
corporate
games,
fast cars,
and all
the other blondes
who willingly
took her place.
He didn't
remember
this was
their anniversary
or notice
the card she had placed
beneath
the single red rose,
on their
heirloom dresser;
wilted
now,
no chance
of revival,
like their
relationship.
I'm home
she said,
voice breaking,
positioning
herself beside
the blaring
TV,
hand on
hip
sling backs
tapping
waiting...wondering...
mourning
their loss.
~~Soaring Spirit,
©2002~~
