Virginia

   I should have kissed her, Virginia.

 

   All that was left of her is a ball and the rust on the side of paper-yellow shed, so she’s been mended with ribbons and smiles and stolen parts. “Kiss me.” She said with the voice on the end of a telephone line. That’s all she says, what she didn’t leave behind trapped in a limbo of time and memory. Maybe she pulled a strand of her brown hair and let it drop behind her ear and batted her blue eyes. But I really must get some sleep, so I suppose it doesn’t matter. She just keeps saying “Kiss me,” and he always turns to the shoes on ground and he always says nothing.

 

   I should have cried, Virginia.

 

   There are block buildings with writing in frames, with conspicuous debris cornered below portraits of George Washington. There are sail boat paintings with living fantastic water, with sails that stick out like a nose from a coffin. She’s always down some long road, and you can only get to her tomorrow. Everything’s so far away.

 

   Virginia’s a museum.

Reviews

[faryn wolff]

Why are you so wonderful? I feel everything through your words. You're talented, my friend. Simple sentences, deeply poignant : "I should have kissed her, Virginia". I can't read that without feeling some regret or sorrow for this situation that I have never been in but surely feel through your poetry.

[Vesa Lee]

I quite liked this. ^-^
The "voice" in this one is very distinct, I love the repetitive lines.
It's great as is, but I think it would be killer if lengthened.
Great write.