Last night’s party didn’t start out so well,
but when it ended, I thought it was funny
how you couldn’t make the peace offering
any sooner—chances are you were thinking about
timing, or whether I even wanted solace;
probably thought I looked too bitter for comfort.
But for a while, I really didn’t need comfort—
I wanted revenge. Thoughts sprouted from a well
as murky as mist, hopeful to find solace
and fulfillment from attacking you and your funny
business—your mixed signals. I paced about
nervously trying to brew some consummate offering
of vengeance. But maybe I was just offering
my heart to a species that spurned the comfort
of companionship in exchange for pouting about,
or writing hopeless poems to ease how quickly tears well
up at the sight of your face. I guess it’s funny
how we were never anything, just one seeking solace
in another. Are there other ways to reach solace?
I’ve always thought that vices could work, offering
some sort of wholesome self. Would I start acting funny
if I married the bottle, or the pipe, or the comfort
of feeding and filling until satisfied? Well,
I’ve yet to try any. Those things bring about
dependency or a stern stoic letter about
how I should withdraw from school; seek solace.
But maybe soon we can start over. Well
prepared will I be when I start offering
some forgiveness. And from there I’ll get comfort
knowing we’re truly on good terms, back to those funny
moments when we’d joke about how funny
was whatsherface when she started flailing about
whatshisface, back to when I found comfort
in just being a friend helping you to get solace.
Last night’s party, with its overdue offering—
your notorious hugs—convinced me to purge the fiery well.
I wish you well, and I hope that the funny
times outnumber my offering, my ramblings about
how I’ve yet to attain solace, the ultimate comfort.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment