Thursday, August 23, 2012

The Fabric of Our Past

The spring flower fresh scent
wafts through the air
as I fold the fabric
one corner at a time
until it is neatly square
and ready to be put away.

Onto the next item in my basket
I pull out a towel
I do not recognize.
It is worn and tattered,
faded and frayed
like my heart.

I hold it up so I can see
the image of some b-rated
gory horror movie
I'd maybe watch on video
but certainly never buy
anything proving
that I saw it.

Somewhere there is a memory
of you lying in the sun,
brown skin sprawled out
warming in the light.
I can see the corner
of a towel in my mind
and I know it is the same
towel I now hold in my hands.

I rip the towel in two
and throw it in the garbage
the way I should've done to you
when you came around knocking
on my door.

I want no part of you
in my heart
in my life
in my house
and certainly not near my body
ever again.

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