Loose Lips

The sun went down without complaint.

The warmth of our late afternoon

is gently stolen by the cloudless sky,

and the chill of almost-autumn

shivers down my spine.

The table we are crowded around

is precariously tilted.

I am constantly in danger

of falling off,

of spilling my drink,

of letting slip just how much

I've missed you.

Rain teases the horizon,

but I hardly notice.

I am desperately trying

not to get wasted

and disappear --

I forgot how to be indifferent,

and I'm convinced I'll scare away

either you or myself. 

Reviews

[barleygirl]

I really love your writing! I'm so glad Julie brought you to my attention! This is such a delightful journey of imagination . . . I was seeing & feeling the whole scenario. I love how fresh & uninhibited your storytelling is . . . very relatable, yet stated in ways that are outside the dots. I totally FELT the tipping of the table as a central metaphor in your message, very palpable all the way thru the poem, this tilting sense of being out of balance. Amazing how you got that across in many vivid ways (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie