The Messy Kind
She lives in New York
with the ghosts of other artists
who lay wailing in doorways.
I only long to be respected
she tells herself, half-believing it.
The truth is she longs for love –
the messy kind, dramatic and torturous.
She could fill her life with other things
and try to block the words from
leaking into her consciousness –
try to keep her heart from
seeping to the surface, but
none of it can really be ignored.
The exquisite pain of her loneliness
is apparent to every face she
passes on the sidewalk.
Being with him is the only way
to make the bleeding stop.
Posted by Amanda at November 05, 2004 12:38 AM
