Mascara Stained Shirt

The circumstances that brought us together
were the same that tore us apart,
we both knew it
we realized it was temporary
but we tried to ignore it
and just live in the moment.
that brutal dictator,
had other plans for us.
The forbidden love (is there such a thing?) we shared
was perfect,
as all short term flings are.
She was crying on my shirt
that last night I was in town
face buried in my chest,
blond hair in my hands.
Fate brought us to this moment
for no other reason than coincidental decisions
made by youthful naivety,
romantic ambition,
momentous lust.
I felt her mascara tears on my chest
and didn’t want to let her go, ever.
She looked up at me and asked
why life was like this,
I didn’t have an answer,
that same aloof question
was floating around in my own mystified mind.
Her half-drunk eyes just stared at me,
she was so fucking beautiful
and yet so sad,
her face held a nature of beauty
that went beyond lust,
beyond passion.
You found a hint of glory
with a small taste
of her wine soaked lips.
I knew this was the last time
I’d taste them,
she knew too.
I walked out the door,
into the noiseless snow
under the raging moonlight
enveloped by the intricate cold
with nothing left of me
but a mascara stain
on my brand new shirt


2 thoughts on “Mascara Stained Shirt

  1. Pearson Sharp says:

    what a powerful poem. I felt like I really got into it, I could feel what was happening, see behind the words to the thing that made you write them. It’s savage, brutal. Lots of contrasts and poignant imagery. You use simple, blunt language to hammer home the power of the emotions, and I think the message is very clear. Very good stuff.

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