Hopefully, by the end of this week, the latest novel by your friendly St. Louis greywolfe (aka M.L. Kinbote) will be available for purchase. Please stay tuned for further details.
In the meantime, here’s a short poem:
I wait in the car
counting time with a windshield wiper metronome
trying to regulate my breathing,
thinking about past loves and a fumbling apology.
In my youth
I would’ve thought of something clever to say
spit venom in iambic pentameter, perhaps,
and make him realize the pain
I endured, patiently, faithfully,
while I held onto the embers of a smoldering romance
never destined to fully kindle into flame
but still burning my palms all the same.
But I have grown old,
and we all have regrets now.
The damage is done,
now we just have to make do
the best that we know how.
There is no longer any spite,
only a general ache of nostalgia
for the days when I felt more,
and when I could articulate it better.
I threw away the poems I had written for him.
But I know the shadow of those words
still echo somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind.
they are ghosts that will always haunt me.
Everything I have endured has brought me to this place.
The sky is a cloudless blue.
The earth is warm from the sun.
I am alive.
But I am restless.