Reflections in Progress I

The 21st
day.
Over, and broken.
To break
           up in your bed
                               room for explanations.

Through the open window
the crushing
                cacophony of laughter ringing
from the party outside,
hysteria laced with alcoholic infusions
like unwanted syrup clogging the throat,
like medicinal Vaporub lathered over
                                         my heaving chest.

Lather it,
rub it in some more
that you’re all so happy
to be here together;
the promise of saccharine cake
and a birthday banquet
of friends to feast and fuck

off. They’ll be none of that here.
Not in this chamber where we came
                                                to a conclusion.

I was too good for you
                                couldn’t see how breathtaking you were,
strangely beautiful, instinctive and feline
curled up
             in your bed
                            room for explanations.

Beneath that blanket cocooned
you looked so young
and yet this was
the 21st
time another year went by
                                        ourselves.

Empty.
Full stop. No comma here.
No making meaning clear,
not at this hour so late
                           David Bowie claims that we can be heroes,
but nothing can keep us together,
                                           in this room
flooded with music
from the celebrations outside
                                             lawn strewn with paper cups and paper smiles
so slight
                 as the being on the bed inside
surrounded by words,
ties
and strings
             snapped after slow,
                                        unseen,
                                            detachment.  

I was too good for you
                              apparently
                                      couldn’t see how breathtaking you were,
strangely beautiful, instinctive and feline
curled up
           in your bed
                           room for explanations. Still. 

words by Lucy Cunningham

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