dead on the page
there are
no more
romantic words
for me
to speak to you
dead on the page
we made love
5 times
in the last
24 hours
what more
could I
have to say to you
dead on the page
at the foot of my bed
me on top
your dress pushed
up to your neck
on the floor
next to my bed
you on top
your dress laid out
next to us
what more
could I
possibly do to you
dead on the page
I pull your hair
I slap your ass
I call you dirty
names
I tell you
how good
you feel
I go down
on you
after the 2nd time
you taste like latex
from the condom
what more
could you possibly
want from me
underneath
the pavement of
these late night streets
underneath
these fogged out eyes
these unsteady feet
these trembling hands
underneath
a heart that beats
too damn fast
underneath
these bloody noses
these shit-stained
pants
these broken lenses
popping out of
these busted glasses
and a wristwatch
which
won't keep time
a pair of headphones
which
won't fit over
these busted ears
underneath
the cold
concrete pavement of
these lonely
late night streets
is a lifetime
worth of
memories to ignore
a lifetime
worth of
Christmases
and Birthdays
and Anniversaries
and time spent
together in bed
a lifetime
worth of
photographs
to remove from
their frames
to unhang
from these walls
Michael Cuglietta is a writer living in Tampa, Florida. His work appears in Opium, Zygote in My Coffee, Blow Back Magazine, The Beat and Haggard and Halloo.