Thoughts We Run From
“If the fool would persist in his folly he would become wise." - WIlliam Blake
She loves the city blocks, the neon lights, the stumbling walks, the I can’t sleep at night.
The way she feels after a glass or two, how she forgets after she takes a few.
I’m still stuck in here, where I’ve always been.
We talk sometimes like old friends.
I listen content to your stammering tales, if it’s all I get, I still don’t care.
She hates a full stomach and the way morning pushes on her limbs, She secretly hates me and sometimes doesn’t even pretend.
She loves a sucker for a cute voice and pale, tattooed skin.
She tolerates my vices.
Again and Again.
I look past her past that creeps in through the window. Shadows in the backyard, the insomniac spin.
But she loves babygirl, loved Sage before she was born.
Using that name like a lions thorn.
A subtle reminder. A jab in the ribs. Showing, exposed, just the way you like them I suppose.
I love you, I hate you. The story so far.
She loves the city night but the beach is her heart.
So I write this bullshit like thought and meaning will come from;
this ink and the paper. Thoughts we run from.
© S.C. Steele– 2021
