By skitten

His heart is an empty teacup
that I continue to sip out of,
my tongue a dry sponge, kept
waiting waiting waiting
for a memory to fill it up.
I hope for it to be filled
with the weight of all sand
in Egypt, hope for it to be poured
by Marc Antony's own hand.

He feels famished
and hung dry,
though I've given him
the Great Lakes.
His selfish attitude
keeps him thirsty on the sickbed.
I wonder if he can taste how much I try.

To fill up the space I take
planets and seas and stars of old age
and I set them on the stove
and turn up the heat for them to explode.

J'ai mal au coeur!
I sense a blood flow, but
here comes the blue and cold.
His heart is an empty teacup
and the more I attempt to fill it up
he cries, "Will you leave a little for me?"


Created: Jul 30, 2010


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