Each dawn, when I crack open my eyes
to verify I’ve received another chance,
I envision you in the empty space
beside me and close them again,
realizing I’ve blown it already.
A once-harmless fascination became
my obsession, fluttering moth-like
’round your incandescence that
threw too much heat for my heart
to dare grow nearer.
But when I realized your heat was
my actual desire, you’d gone cold,
your own obsessions directing it
so far from me I had to warm myself
with reveries of useless might-have-beens.
Now most mornings I fail another chance
to ignore these all-day reminiscences
of a future we never could have had,
obliviously resigning myself to the fact
my miserable life’s better
we never did.
Day One of April’s Poem-a-Day Challenge: A Reminiscing Poem. And what’s more silly, dreaming Hesch-like than reminiscing about something that never happened?
All our lives
for some something,
some even finding it.
All our lives we quest,
only to find it was
merely the flash
enticed us and
were naught but
of no substance
glinting upon our
All my life
for the maybe,
But I never
got it right,
ending up with fingers
and feelings scorched,
dropping back to earth
like a cigarette butt
tossed in fiery failure.
I couldn’t hold on,
making the grasp
a step too late,
finding I couldn’t
hold onto my own
Perhaps I should give up
my searching ways,
but I can’t because
maybe the next one,
or the next, or …
well, it might be
the one I finally
There’s always tomorrow. Isn’t there? Maybe, in the long run, it’s not some something or someone , but the search I really search for.
The season must’ve changed because
there you are again.
Every time I feel that first burst
of the What, When and Where
of climatic change,
I know the Why of your Who
will blow full
my thoughtful sails today.
Is it my first sensing
of those lacy spring blossoms’
or the panting earthy exhalations
of autumn’s leaves?
Is it the heady summer sweat
that chills me,
or the icy bite of winter
that flashes warm through my body?
Are they reminding me of those
foolish feelings and misdirected dreams?
Those are rhetorical questions, actually.
I don’t need answers because
tomorrow it just won’t matter.
And I’ve long since sailed past
the self-inflicted How of it all
A new free-write from the past-informed fiction side of my head. And maybe my once-romantic reporter’s soul.
As the man in the midnight blue silk suit nibbled his date’s neck again, instead of the now-cold Chateaubriand for Two on the plates sitting before them, Eddie Pietro pulled at his collar and twisted his narrow black tie once more.
“Jesus F’ing Christ, why don’t these two just climb on the table and get it over with? At least someone would be done with their business before midnight,” Eddie said in the kitchen doorway to the busboy, Martin Leo.
“Chill, man, not like you got no woman waiting for you out there tonight,” Martin said to the back Eddie’s sweat-stained white shirt as the waiter steamed to the men’s room again.
Eddie parked himself on the toilet, locked the stall door and shook out the barest remains in the cocaine vial onto the back of his hand while, at a club across town, Loosh glared at his knock-off Piaget, decided he couldn’t wait any longer and whispered into the ear of the college boy on his lap, “Hey, Cariño, would you like a bump?”
Based on the Five Sentence Fiction prompt WAITING.
secret weapon (Photo credit: pinprick)
Tyler sat up, a smugly satisfied look on his face, as he smoothed out the sheet and duvet in front of him, waiting for Jeanine to finally come to bed.
He knew she wouldn’t take long, this being their big night and all, and he was certain she was as anxious as he was.
His whole time in the hospitals in Afghanistan and Germany, and now finally home, he had dreamed of nothing else but Jeanine, who told him his scars and paralysis meant nothing to her.
Tyler sent the nursing aide home with a wink because they all were pleased–doctors, therapists, shrinks and his family–he was finally ready to spend the night without a medical person in the apartment.
He took the extra Ambien he’d hidden, laid back a few minutes and smiled–the first really big smile since they told him that drunk had killed Jeanine on I-95 while she was driving to visit Tyler in Walter Reed–then pulled the plug on the ventilator and waited, knowing this really was the night they dreamed of and Jeanine wouldn’t be long.
©Joseph Hesch 2012
This week’s little story is written in response to Lillie McFerrin’s Five-Sentence Fiction prompt “Night