Your legs
wrap around me
like the roots of a tree
searching for water,
but Honey,
I’m a cold, dry earth.
I’m no giver of sustenance.
I’m no fertile oasis,
or clean mountain spring
that will feed you.
I’m a rock,
rich in sulphur.
I’m deadfall,
and sharp sand,
and ashes.
The only thing
I’ll birth in you
is disappointment
and sadness,
the kind that grows
into resentment.
I’m a land of stones
that cannot be plowed.
A fallow field
full of hidden dangers.
Part of you might think
I can be reclaimed,
but Baby,
a man like me
only gets one savior.
I’m a sour vintage.
Not quite vinegar,
but no longer wine.
I’m a curse,
muttered in a chapel.
I’m the December wind,
and I’m sustained.
Your lips
couldn’t redeem me.
Your skin
couldn’t return my soul.
Your eyes
search me for an answer,
but your heart knows
that what I say is true.
Find another
to keep you company.
To sit beside me
is to know only absence.
Walk on by me,
like you would pass a graveyard,
thankful to be moving on.
There is no hope
living here.
DJR – 2022
