Holding

 

Stridency reigned as raised voices tug o’ warred each evening
after closing time
I held your wrists and
held my tongue
and held a puff in my shaking hands
to dust the covering powder across my cheeks
I held you as you wept and poured out sticky sickly sorrow
and promises worn thin from hard use
I held out and held on
and on
until that one day
when my hands were cramped and cold from clenching
so long
I opened my hand and you fell
out
soft as ashes
and just as unremarkable

©jayetomas2014

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About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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