A  Collection

is what the morgues have,

they’ve been collecting people
disposing of them for many years –

and speaking of years,
when did I meet you?

we started as friends
of a friend

talking over the phone
(except when you left me alone)

ended as an exlover
an outcast.

years, what a concept
365 days (times two for loving you)

i still think about those days
of talking, which seems so

scarce now (you’ve left me alone)
but ah, you claim yourself

a loner, a misfit, a depressed
son of a bitch (i actually like your

mother more than i fancy you)
can’t you see that wrapping

yourself like a Christmas present
with the people who care

about you and for you
to wrap them around you

in layers like the onion i’ve
always imagined you to be (proving i’ve cried

over you too many times)
your collection of wrapping paper

is rotting away (in the morgues)
with the care

of the people
who were once wrapped

around you, the morgue
of my life

(and my life with you)

~Suzanne Bolden