Someone told me I was a hopeless romantic

Someone told me I was a hopeless romantic

A Poem by Tom Cook

I rarely write sappy stuff, but, hey I needed to do this one...

Perhaps my greatest fear in life is not wasps, 
horses, clowns, or using public restrooms at
night. I think it is the depth of loneliness, the empty
couch cushions and closet. The missing car in
the parking spot, or waking up to an empty bed
everyday of my life. 

There's nothing wrong in admitting it. We're lonely.
There was a woman that I loved, still do, who has every reason
to hate me. It wasn't what you would expect, I think what it was
is that I made her feel alone. 
Or I was an a*****e. That can happen. 

At times I lay wrapped in a sea of black sheets and comforter, and I
go back to thinking she is there spinning a web between my roof and ceiling fan
and given the right push of motivation, she'll weave a rope
and bob down where she'll wrap her arms around my chest and
kiss the side of my cheek and scratch the side of my head.

Or for something realistic, I wish when I came home at
one in the morning after work, I would see her truck parked outside of
my apartment. Or in the spot next to me. I would float to the top floor, my feet
never touching the steps or the carpet as the door slides open
and I shed my retail work skin. I would push the door to my bedroom open
and she would be wrapped in linen on her side.
My home would be clean, because I wanted her to see me as
responsible and organized, my room would be shelved and
placed in minute increments so to remind me
not her, that I had my s**t together, no stacks of dirty clothes
or dirty underwear, bottles of Belgian lager and Mexican beer with
pruned limes in the bottom. The fridge would be a 
home to eggs, bacon, ham, celery, lettuce, cheese, tortillas
goat cheese, steak, chicken legs, taquitos, soda, orange juice, and
milk. Instead of beer, and the occasional slice of honey turkey. 

My life would wrap around her as I rolled against her back my 
chin on rear of her neck, my face in her hair breathing in the field of red
on her head, taking in the fragrance of her shampoo and conditioner one
lungful at a time. My arms around her belly would snake their way
along the border where the state of the sheets and the nation of her skin
meet, and they would creep by the mountains of her breasts
and the ridge of her cleavage. They would would find the peninsula of her
hands, the isthmus of her fingers and they would come down on
them like a thunderstorm, and would wrap around them while she cooed
in her sleep. I would taste her neck and cheek, and I would place my
head against her red hair and sleep. 

Like a child with their stuffed animal, or maybe a cub to 
its momma bear. I would blanket myself with her
security, the notion of her being there made the bills,
the cancer, the stress, the schoolwork, the obstacles of life
just disappear, maybe for a night or an hour or a minute or a moment, but
they would disappear. 

Women. Some of them that is, are the best drug in
the world, however they're harder to kick. 

© 2012 Tom Cook

My Review

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is this the woman with the red hair?

Posted 11 Years Ago

Lovely write love is a drug and the best feeling you captured that perfectly.

Posted 11 Years Ago

You've absorbed the whole essence of what it is to be "in love" and how it should be between ordinary folk. If this is your dream/fantasy I am sure you can make it your reality.

This wasn't was romantic and beautifully penned :O)

Posted 11 Years Ago

1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

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3 Reviews
Added on June 6, 2012
Last Updated on June 6, 2012
Tags: red head, sleeping, bed, cuddle, love, stuff, macho, nachos, beans, mother, of, god


Tom Cook
Tom Cook

Cape Girardeau, MO

My fiction has been published in the World of Myth, my body in Play-girl. I'm an editor for Wednesday Night Writes, please send me your stories, flash fiction, and poetry, I want you to know the wa.. more..

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