by deja blue
One is the loneliest number to be,
One is the broken wishbone,
the fractured calcium,
the “one” does not belong on a pedestal,
anymore than you or me.
A piece of candy,
That was my first,
and I thought you’d be my last
my last love.
in my pocket
is more likely.
The first poem?
Why, I could hardly remember,
I’m the swift kind of eater,
and I devour pages and words,
with ink dribbling down my bottom lip
and a crazed look in my eye.
I do not eat because I am hungry,
as I do not read because I seek knowledge,
as I do not love because I want it in return.
You stuck like
silly putty to
my teeth, to my gums,
and even now I
can taste the
rubber on my tongue.
0 thoughts on “one”
We remember the first one, and smile… I typically enjoy poems that call attention to any of the five senses of memory, and “One” reads like someone’s childhood memory. Sometimes memories make the most arresting poems.
this poem is a delicious piece of cotton candy. yum, tweedle dum.
i agree; they’re also the most likely to be described passionately about because since they’re only our history only we know it. grasping the souvenir.
i appreciate that this is read like a young lady suddenly regressing into childhood, but is very perplexed by the sensation.
anyway i think that’s why memory exists…for our egos to fool us into believing we need individuality or that we have that at all in the first place.
now, there’s an interesting thought