04-21-2013, 01:55 AM
He seemed amused,
scoffing at “The Catcher in the Rye”.
Who has not read that by age eighteen?
Perhaps he needs saving,
straying too near the cliffs.
He loves to read and the way
my hair catches the wind.
Like most men, he preferred
a goddess but moved closer
my warm skin.
We would meet again,
me with my Bell Jar,
he with his academics.
We stayed forever in that shabby room.
Toast with hot chocolate,
reading Madame Bovary
and Sheldon paperbacks,
flipping through Playboy.
We parted on a wintry day.
When I found him again
he was living in a pink tract house
on faded dreams.
scoffing at “The Catcher in the Rye”.
Who has not read that by age eighteen?
Perhaps he needs saving,
straying too near the cliffs.
He loves to read and the way
my hair catches the wind.
Like most men, he preferred
a goddess but moved closer
my warm skin.
We would meet again,
me with my Bell Jar,
he with his academics.
We stayed forever in that shabby room.
Toast with hot chocolate,
reading Madame Bovary
and Sheldon paperbacks,
flipping through Playboy.
We parted on a wintry day.
When I found him again
he was living in a pink tract house
on faded dreams.