Maybe more than anything it was the gin
she loved, that way of forgetting things,
a short oblivion, a dance against
the “night of knives” she’d say;
as if those memories
would rock-a-bye on bye forever.
Sitting there in the airport he listened,
knew it would never end, her pain;
winter mist and fuel brought it all home,
trying to reconcile this stale episode
with the person he’d known so long ago.
One day she never came home. A phone call.
A note under the door. “I love you.” it said.
– Steven Craig Hickman ©2014 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.