The Aftermath Of Love

I want to talk about the aftermath of love,
not the honeymoon or the hitherto;
but the upshot and the convalescence,
the slow, hard hauling–the heavy tow.
I want to tell you about those evenings,
that crept inside like a vagrant cat;
and cast around its drawn out shadow,
untoward–insufferably black.
I want to write about the mornings,
the sterility of the stark, cold light;
struck against a pair of bare shoulders,
the lurid whisper of a misspent night.
I want to convey the afternoon setting,
the water torture of the sink;
drip by drip, the clock and its ticking,
and too much time left now to think.
Like this poem? Read more in Lang Leav's book Memories, available here.


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