This morning was easier
than yesterday morning,
or yesterday's yesterday morning.
I did not think about you.
Not your scent,
Or your touch,
Or your face.
There was just a vague feeling
Of hunger
and the aroma
of pancakes and eggs.
There was a sense
Of losing
something important.
But I brushed it off
and downed the misery
with honey and milk.
Sometimes there is victory
in forgetting
and defeat in remembrance.
There was a sense
Of losing
something important.
But I brushed it off
and downed the misery
with honey and milk.
Sometimes there is victory
in forgetting
and defeat in remembrance.
Photo taken here.
What's the story, morning glory?
ReplyDeletesometime there is victory
ReplyDeletein forgetting
and defeat in remembrance.
Planj! Winniebelles!
Yeah, too much cloying syrup on pancakes will make you regret and want to forget. Sweet!
ReplyDeleteYeah, I wonder what the back story is. Someone posted something on google buzz this morning and i remembered it when I read your post. (I'm mostly bad at remembering stuff so this isn't verbatim) It sucks when you forget things you're suppose to remember but it feels worse when you remember things you're supposed to regret.
ReplyDeletehey...thank you for the comment..thank you very much..you know...you're the first person who commented on my blog...so thank you ver much....I'll surely write about whay you said:love,friendship...:D:D..thank you again..:D
ReplyDelete@rudeboy and cityboy: old poem about an old story. i'll tell it some other time. :-)
ReplyDelete@carrie: thanks.
@peter: hahaha. that's one way of looking at it.
@tabzy: hey no prob. :-)
hope you had just the right amount of honey.
ReplyDeletewas the milk non-fat? ;-)
beautiful poem. no tinge of pain felt.
"Sometimes there is victory
ReplyDeletein forgetting
and defeat in remembrance."
- not if you have sharp memory. hehe. everything passes, even heartache, once you have new memories to topple/override the pain with :)
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ReplyDeleteAnd it ebbs, as it heaves. Soon it will be as faint as the sharp morning dew. As effervescent as the last rays of the sun at dusk. Fleeting reminders that one cannot hold on to, contain, preserve. Maybe it's better that way.
ReplyDeleteWhen the memory is but a story, and the boy is but a dream.
@kiks: thanks.
ReplyDelete@firewoman: and sometimes memories can be too sharp. :-)
@red: like poetry dude. :-)
Lovely lovely lovely.
ReplyDeleteCan't really say anything more.
(An unusual feeling for me, really.) ;-)
- B x
I like poems like these, it catches a part of me I have repressed ages ago. I hope you would post more...
ReplyDelete@Barreness and glentot: thank you.
ReplyDelete