I keep developing these images of that season in the back of my mind,
Like painful Polaroids that I just can't seem to shake.
(Sh-sh-sh-shake it like a Polaroid picture)
I exhale a weak, half-hearted laugh.
I drain the coffee and continue on,
Taking mental note that every novel thing in my life is destined to wind up coffee-stained.
The endless nights, the scrawled prose, the telltale caresses --
And now I'm walking and there you are in the horizon,
Long-legged and plaid-clad, because
That is how the rules of the game are played.
It is a rigged game, after all.
Your eyes give you away like they always did,
Pools of twinkling azure mischief.
But this time they avert themselves,
And shame courses through my veins and incinerates my core.
The gallery of my mind's eye is inundated with ruthless images.
The freeze frames where I'm robbed of my dignity in one fell swoop line the walls,
Impeccably framed by the your weightless, empty words.
'I want you, Lindsay, now.'
Grotesque utterances, all of them.
So travel home on two wheels tonight
And set up the blank canvas in your empty house.
Attempt to craft something Impressionistic and weighty,
Regurgitating your self-righteousness through acrylics and watercolors.
Don't think of me and don't remember my face, my mind.
Black me out with bits of charcoal, please,
Until I'm nothing but raven swaths of anonymity.