The Casual Ache

I awoke in the clothes I had washed long ago, the memories were heavy, all wet and dragging. The TV was on and I was half way through a song, I had forgot I was writing, between now and the morning. There was bruises on my neck and I had so much on my chest I thought I would be empty, not casually aching. I know that this misfortune is like a get-well card next to your bed, and I know it hurts when you read what I write, but if it hadn't been this way, i would have dug an early grave,
to prevent this disaster, from ever occurring.

The mirror was fogged and I remembered words i'd forgotten, in a dream i'd been missing, forever lost in a diary. Our house on its hill, became rope to hold us together, anthills and bird nests, all tarnished and weathered and I realized then, that my only victory is walking, not the words on the page that I wrote until morning, or the lips that I kissed, the shade of lipstick you were wearing, not the targets I missed or the agony I came bearing. In the well i threw a coin and decided to dive in after, because once the moneys left your hand, so does your poetry and laughter.