Telling it Like it is...(I.P.)

Spring never ever came that year –
the year he left...Funny

but sometimes, I think I see him
across the street...

I run to catch him up – touch
his shoulder

and it’s only a stranger’s face, turns
to confront me.

Ask myself, why I keep searching –
kidding myself...

and then I feel his hand on mine,
but, oh – those scars

are still so tender; they’ll never heal.
I hear him speak my name...

feel his lips brushing mine – then
“Lean on me...” says another.

“I’ll be your rock, and always
will be; don’t you know that?

I’d move mountains for you...
Give you the moon, if you wanted.”

“He’s a ‘brick’. You’d be a fool
to let him go,” or so they tell me.

How to tell them, our daffodils, dug
that year, didn’t bloom again this spring,

and how to tell this one, I don’t need
all his bullshit...

It’s not a rock, or a brick, or the moon
I want. Just a pillow.