Musings by The Poet Loriet

Six Letters

Six letters.
You said if you were a man,
my last name would be
six letters, not four.

You made my heart ache,
a physical empty ache
that echoed through my body.
How can you make me
dream about you,
then tell me
you need to say goodbye.
We said we'd never
say the word "goodbye."

You said, "I'm going to hate it
when you speak of me in past tense."
You asked me to love you
just one more time
before you set me free,
asked me not to cling to memories,
look back ~ look in mirrors...
I can't do that.
I will never be free
from the ghost of your love.

There are things that will always
remind me of you...
hot coffee, seafood,
jazz music, red lillies,
poetry, songs on the radio,
apple danishes, catnip toys,
the ocean, willow trees,
black trucks, drive-in movies,
slow dancing, the river at night,
white stretch limousines,
my dancing glove, mermaids,
porch swings, greenhouses,
moonlight, sunshine,
air, water,
colors, smells, sounds...

Dammit, honey, why can't you
just be a man? Come claim me.
I would be your girl,
your baby bird,
your lorikeet,
your babyblue,
your everything.
Instead, you want to
tell me goodbye
(because you love me).

Baby, I will give you
the last night you asked for.
I will say goodbye with my voice,
but never with my heart.
That night, nothing will exist
except for us as we
shut out the world.

I will call out your name,
tell you how I love you
and will say the word "goodbye"
because you asked me to,
but I will always hold on
to the hope that there's a
time and place where my last name
could be those six letters...
and not these four.



Lori Beal


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Six Letters

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