Photograph by CONTINT
It's 4 in the morning,
And all I could think about was you.
About how we could have been the greatest,
Why we say things we didn't mean,
I'll wake up at 3.
Or how us became you and I.
Tomorrow,
Even when life is just starting to fall
I'll wake up thinking
How life started becoming shitty,
And a dozen bottles of cheap beer.
Asleep after rough sex
12 was the age I stopped dreaming.
12 a.m.
My mind is starting to sink into
A deep slumber.
Twelve.
12 was the date of your birthday.
I lay awake with my legs sprawled
12 was the number of times
You fucked me over
And I still said sorry.
The alarm rings at 6.45 a.m.
In awkward positions,
Go back to bed.
As the blanket was on the floor
While the fan hums its own peculiar tune.
It's a Saturday.
Life is put on hold.
___________________________________________________________NOTE: The poem above will be featured in Emmanuel Christy's upcoming poem booklet, DIVER CITY.