The flowers we forget




image by renatadogmagalska (deviantart)

I chimed in
it was two o'clock
the stew sat on the boil
a century ago
women would toil
and now they beg us not 
to wear laces
i drank my juice
thought of our common spaces
all our in between times ten
the who know you know,
The why and when
The water colour scrapes
and the near death misses
Empty promises
and almost kisses
The eyes pinched on me
as honey
as glue
we are forever linked
as the clock hums a lazy tick
and my eyes 
betray the darkest secret
the coffee mug, an angry prince
say's did you wear this jacket just for him?
Paint your lips,
and wet your skin,
a piece of art
you've here become
Make sure you are his special one,
and the Coffee mug, an angry prince,
says did you wear those high heels just for him?
As the observers with postcards of my yesterday pain
share the memory of my heart once slain
Then the waitress climbs lazily towards me
as though clambering invisible stairs,
flashes a polaroid smile with a jigsaw face that would fit his perfection and 
says.
" I remember you lady, your meeting Tom right?" 
My head is anville, 
My hands are soft dough.
 " He called to cancel..." she pauses on the tip of emerging wisdom. "It's an uncomfortable seat to sit in, "
 I half rise, 
drown my Vodka throat in the Coffee that's now it's constitution. 
" You're a pretty girl," i respond politely,
"and one day you'll realize your one too, to the Toms of the World." She raises an invisible glass in a gesture of cheers, disappears to the oblivion of cakes behind the counter, i imagine her springing to life from the glossy pages of a beauty magazine, hair wild as an exclamation mark, Teeth mid preparation for a photographers easy finger. I feel her eyes like Wax on my back, counting each step i take with piercing sapphire eyes. I imagine her calculating my missing marbles, and mourning the loss for me of a wasted afternoon. In my head i recycle her judgement. I realize girls like us are tired of sitting on a throne of Tom's broken promises, and  empty suitcases. My lips are kissed with another blot of cherry lipstick, the air is suffocated with the nuissance of my perfumed stench.  " he could have loved me." i mutter to myself, as cars zig zag my already sobbing frame. Past, traffic lights that wink red, and green, my monopoly mind thinks of ways to rescue a heart on dead man's row. I'll begin with Ice cream, not Ben and Jerry's, the cheap brand, that's no frills, and in between my sob stories, and excuses, i'll figure out why i'm a tape on fast forward rewind.

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