Existential Crisis

 

Existential Crisis

‘Poetry doesn’t exist,’
he said sadly
He put his hand on my chest
Soft fingers that still smelt of whiskey
‘This.’ He whispered. ‘This is real.’
‘This imaginary dialogue in your head
This narrative, descriptive of he said she said
-It doesn’t exist.
I know you want it to
I know it makes the world more beautiful
To you
But it’s not real,’ he added,
with the air of someone breaking bad news
‘Poetry doesn’t exist.’
And he lay down with me under the moon
In the wet grass that needled my back with
Its tiny points
And his arm was under me
And we kissed

‘Stupid man,’ I thought languorously
Stretched out next to his chest, damp
With dew and sweat
He slept, and I watched him

My poetry

©CM
18.09.2016