Rubbing
my eyes
I
cannot believe I’m dying
But
I knew it was only a matter of time
Listening
to Ron Sexsmith
There’s
a new challenge everyday
I
do my best to deny it all
Holding
a microphone like a tomb raider
Digging
my cock out of my dirty jeans
Once
I go up on the mountain I don’t plan on returning
I
rubbed my eyes
And
you were gone
Gone
like bad weather or a silver living hell-bent on the changing seasons
There’s
nothing to it really
You
just claw the words out from behind your irreversible eyes
And
somedays I’m 5’2 and other days I’m 5’3
I
still remember our first conversation
You
said very little
And
nothing much has changed now
I
said I was dying at the beginning of this poem
I
may have exaggerated a wee-bit
I
have a tendency to do that when I’m bored and seemingly out of options
Charles Cicirella
3/24/2016
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