All I needed were my Hands
Will you write about me, too?
When I become the moth –eaten woman at the corner of the bar?
The one Jack Dawson drew?
Will you speak of the longing sadness in my bloodshot eyes
As I sip a drink you’ve never tasted
And Hum a song you’ve never heard?
Will you notice the ink smudges on my hand?
Will you tell the bartender that a
“non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity?”
And that a writing writer is
Madness incarnate?
Will you tell him?
Tell him.
Tell him an artist never stops creating.
Tell him
that
pearls are classier-
And curls are the sassiest way to go out
In Manhattan,
or any city,
Or out of this world,
where
Time no longer matters.
Tell him
timelessness
exists only in the
Frozen moments and
In
the existential legacies
of those who see the
people at the end of the bar top,
Only aging on the outside.
Tell him.
Tell him he owes you and I both a drink,
For
I wrote about him
And you wrote about me
And we both know the
secret formula
To- feeling –nothing- and –knowing- everything.
And in no liquid courage
will this otherwise be revealed.
To him.
And as he pours the
aged
whiskey that
ages the
young and
tastes freer
than youth on
your tongue,
tell him
that no heart ever truly heals;
that the unwounded heart is
pointless.
And tell him this:
That long after the moths
have eaten me away,
And tarnished the gold rings on leathery fingers,
That which
he and you and me and they
made with
Our hands
before and
during the years they
began to shrivel up..
is.the. only.thing .that
lasts-
After the last drink.
The
last word.
The
last breath.
And when you write about me,
Tell them that I left lipstick on my martini glass.
Tell them I that I liked manhattans.
