Comedy Of Terror

Entry by: jaguar

5th February 2016

Oh you, oh you at fifteen.
Your little finger held mine
but nothing else touched.

Half amused, half afraid
too wishy-washy, not strong enough
to turn affection into a torrent,
to sweep us away
from the worst thing we could be -
a nothing ever happened.

So somehow we’re fifty
you call me to claim
there are aliens under your bed
and I must help you
pop every one of their eyebulbs
or they’ll spread like Japanese knotweed.

Are you joking or on something?

I’m almost condensed enough now,
sharp and salty as feta cheese
I think about your bedroom
a mattress flat on the floor,
depressed by other women
while what I feel for you,
remains unbearable.