I would find comfort in sharing my woes,
If only the card had a destination.
It lay worn within my pack, as my emotions lay bare on full display as I am locked within as usual.
I didn't need to see you, but my memories would not allow me that comfort, and the cold will not spare me from sleeping outside yet again tonight.
No matter the terrain, we are underneath the same skies, it seems.
I drifted slowly down the trail into another town to resupply and vanish as quickly as possible.
I kept the postcard with you in mind.
I haven't written a single line as this discomfort goes beyond the satisfaction of a locked door and a warm bed.
I yearned to embrace you, as I needed to feel something besides the cold and blank face stares.
Everyone is guessing at this shit at best.
I dropped the postcard in the garbage can.
Love never needs an address for it's bound for the landfill no matter our intentions.
My heart was heavy, as were my lines.
I miss you by default.
I lost a button on a worn-out jacket.
I lost my senses long before this occurrence.
You never need a card for I never left you within my mind.
John Patrick Robbins, is a Southern Gothic writer his work has appeared in Piker Press, Disturb The Universe, Horror Sleaze Trash, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Fearless Poetry Zine, The San Pedro River Rivew, Cold Rambler and the Dope Fiend Daily.
His work is often dark and always unfiltered.
No comments:
Post a Comment