A Once Upon A Love Of My Past Youth


It was not as if I,
didn’t care
for I swear I still most wanted to
but here we were again, I listening,
to your young and droning words, so stilted, so practiced, prepared and
too stiff,
too familiar,
and so of, now, in-affect,
maybe in their too familiarity for the me of who I am, now,
with your words, too passionate, too impractical,
at least for this me, my, now, more rational, sensible, mind,
as I can see, now, how, so unschooled you were in this art of love and war,
and in the keeping
of a woman, who in her heart, did not want to be kept,
as my ears and eyes smolder as if upon my mind is the start, the spark,
the, now beginning
of a purifying brushfire of my rebirth, personal—of my renewal, identity,
as I wish to wander, to explore,
the next one, the next man, the next one who
might too,
in my ears and eyes and heart, drone on and on about how he is the one—
the only one who is, now,
truly best, for me,
while I,
still wish for the next line the next chapter the next verse
the next page, already,
as I wonder, how,
I once in my idealistic and romanticized youth could have been taken in by your unbridled,
voice, and line, and rhyme,
as I remember back to the cadence of your poetic words that were to me,
like music,
and caused within me, enrapture, vibration, need, and yes, even love, yes, even,
some love,
but here we are, now, as you speak and I cease in most anyway,
to care, to listen,
As I must raise my knowledged, quiet hand up to your rambling orifice
and place, so sweetly—
the soft kiss of my pulse-ed forefinger upon your bumbling lips,
and bid you as poet, as past lover, as my once beloved past love,
not sing.

Eric Pierzchala
Currently living in Ohio.