Focus

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Do not look at me
or pretend to see me in the night
do not want to hold my hand
or squeeze my waist tight
do not slide your hands
underneath my thin pale blouse
for I am on the run
from my own private house
from locked diaries
burned up souls
enter the hash-tag whores
with perfect tits and scores
better to never know my skin’s moon
I am off tune
a giggling fool
always misinterpreting the rule
red carpets, free drinks, flowers,
stepping stones
falling between the lines
landing in ditches
as you slide your hand up my thigh
losing control of the wheel
on a furtive high
my desire on your tongue
as you let yourself finally feel
every part of me I hung.
Do not look at me
let me explode in my own dust
let me wallow
about my lack of trust
let me imagine your dark eyes
full of lust
as I run,
run,
hair flowing
not in a bun
up to the lookout at Mont Royal
examining other people’s initials
recreating love stories
up all night tapping with the furies
to forget how you
gave me chills
I run down the hills
as the sun sets
and still
your name
turns out to be
the poem of my life.

I run
to be free of you
and realize
I am
for I never had you
at all.

5 thoughts on “Focus

    Renard Moreau said:
    July 7, 2014 at 4:14 pm

    [ Smiles ] Great! Another lovely poem!

      Chrissy responded:
      July 7, 2014 at 5:52 pm

      Thank you! Xo

        Renard Moreau said:
        July 7, 2014 at 5:53 pm

        [ Smiles ] You are welcome!

    Mike said:
    July 9, 2014 at 9:25 am

    A helter-skelter rush to an abrupt and numbing finish. A great mad flow of words Chrissy – well done.

      Chrissy responded:
      July 9, 2014 at 12:35 pm

      Much appreciation for your refreshing comments. Always make me smile. Curtsy, Mike.

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