A petty poem.
I imagined her smooth, soft skin turned dry and scaled with age and neglect; the whitening of her
lush hair, the souring of her body.
Time would shake beauty from her, if beauty exists, until she became a bare and scrawny trunk
surrounded by wisps of past glory.
Her muffled cries would fade into the years, and the shine love lent her eyes would dissolve into a
tired dream —
or so I thought;
I thought that love was nothing so important after all, and I could shrug, indifferent, and let her walk
away with her wet cheeks and anger —
And oh, if I could take back that day!
That is what you’ll say
the day after I leave you.
You were warned.
November 15, 1996