The Taste of Blood


First of all, I’d like to say that watching Mumford and Sons on the live YouTube feed was… indescribable. Lost for words, I am. (also I am apparently Yoda today?) I am in love with this interconnected network of awesome that allowed me to be here in the comfort of my own home and yet be watching one of my favourite bands perform live thousands of kilometres away. ❤

Secondly, I have another poem for you, dearest internet. It has to do with love, but not the same boundless stirring love that I feel for music.
“Always this ridiculous obsession with love!”
Yeah, here goes.

The Taste of Blood

I remember
The taste of blood on my tongue as you told me you were leaving. I bit the inside of my cheek hard, to halt the flood of accusations that threatened to burst forth.

I warned
That I would fall hard for you; this was not some foolish infatuation. I asked for one last kiss before you left me with the door half-open. You shook your head.

I begged
With my eyes as you stepped backward, bag on your shoulder and sleep folded on your face. Your resigned sigh cut through me, and I pressed you into the wall with my body.

You whispered
That this was never meant to go so far. The corners of your eyes were red. We turned to look as your friend honked her horn, and I saw the indecision in your face. I reached up on tiptoes.

I remember
The taste of blood salt coffee gum nicotine whiskey, and you. Your bag hit the floor when you cradled my head. My hand on your cheek, the other on your heart, both pleading for mercy.

© Bridget Noonan, 2011.

Well, that was fun. Time to go do… something else. I don’t know. Maybe sleep. Maybe not. Definitely something mindless for a bit though. Because I still don’t really know what that just was, or where it came from, and I’ve been working on it for a couple weeks.

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