August West

I watch the sun rise behind your mouth

and wonder if you remember

the tired waitress;

bored before it began.

You are a valley of mother

a sprawl of grandma’s back porch

and West Village brownstone.

I can still smell the eucalyptus oil

you took from your kitchen cupboard.

We are all hungry to find somewhere new.

Your hands are carved oaks

and your mouth is still honest.

But what could I ever know about

loneliness?

I was just the tea you made

to stay awake.
I’d rather not be Eleanor Rigby

but if you need a new muse,

with eyes heavy as sleep

some things will never change.

Do you write the same stories

on new skin

and only change the names?

I still can’t tell what it is I want,

but you don’t have the answers,

do you?

The smoke, the carpet,

the poems on the desk.

What is it you were hoping?

I counted strings on your steel guitar

while you told me about the book;

everything you love came close.

I took my shoes off,

drank the rose hips tea, and listened

to your skin hum story.

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About amyleighcutler

Writer, dancer, vagabond extraordinaire
This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to August West

  1. Love the smell of eucalyptus oil too. Mixed with peppermint.

  2. there are always six strings. just as there are always disconnects in every relationship.

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