My girlfriend and I, are at the graveyard. There’s a bottle of bourbon whiskey. That dangles between her knees. There are rolls of smoked weed. One stick dangles between my fingers. I’m sitting directly opposite her. Her back leaning on the grave; Where an epitaph rests waiting for kind souls to read through. She’s putting on some dark hood. She gulps the whiskey; it burns her throat till she press her eyelids so hard. She goes on at it.
See, my girlfriend is more of a writer than I am. She does this when she’s utmostly drunk. She thinks that, she can never write when sober because all that her sober mind can do is paint me or yet be a feminine version of the writer in me. She thinks that the only thing I can beat her in is writing. So she rather leave me to sail. I chuckle at this. So, she pulls out her notebook; places it on her laps. And begins to write.
She writes of a crow; that nestles just at the tip of her shoulder; it doesn’t shake her. She feels like turning round and stare at its eyes. She remains still. She writes of the dark sky high at noon. That it wants to rain, she thinks, yet it’s death who reigns. She’s preempting to hear thunder, and see lightning bolting from the dark sky, to purge it’s way through and strike her. Yet echoes of a thousand crows far away, reverberates into the crimson blue moon. That’s all she hears.
She writes of fogs and mists; how they sprout from the horizon like worms on carcass; onto her feet they fiddle. In a distant; indistinct crows and flap of wings fades away. She writes about a young flower she stepped on neath the grave she sits. It died. She writes about the bottle of whiskey. The feeling it gives her. How the bottle tip touches her little lips; she reminisces about my kisses on her lips.
She writes about me. How I’d be holding on to the stick of weed playing with it on my lips. She’d come close enough and breathe my breath. We’d breathe the same breath. How I’d be sitting there in my dreamy eyes with words on my lips, I would seduce her for every moment I lived. She writes. How shy I always was. How I was shy of arguments for she won either way. She smiles. She writes of the day I became her worst fear. When I ‘came sick. Her smile fades.
She writes about the graveyard. She writes about the epitaph. That it ain’t the best of epitaphs; for it misses the point where I was “best boyfriend ever”. She takes a pebble, and scribble “best boyfriend ever!”. She writes, she never knew graveyard existed till it became my home.
My girlfriend and I, are at the graveyard. She’s gulping the bitter whiskey. I’m smoking weed. She doesn’t see me. She closes her notebook. Pours whiskey on my grave. “I loved you, it’s hard to move on.” I watch her leave.
“I will always love you” I whisper, but it’s the wind she hears.
***
As written by Phill Ibsen
( Master Of Descriptions )
A Heart_Art_Poetics productions.
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