Wounded Drummer boy… (a poem by Jack)

Condom wrapper…torn open… lays on a lamp stand..

The smell of used condom and remnants of a blown out candle permeate…

They are my only evidence that she was ever here…

She left as quickly as she came..

And I know I’m not supposed to grow attached, but I have..

The beat.. And rhythm of her sway is what did it… The drum of her heart is what did it…

I could hear every oscillation and found my thoughts syncing with her bass…

It’s the bass..

I need to hear it again…

But… It was supposed to be simple.. I wasn’t to be attached.. I’m to play my role..

And hope she heeds..

Hope she comes back to beat my drum one more time…

There really is no point… For I know she beats for another…

Vibrations bursting in melody.. A melody beyond lust…

I’m too insecure for all this..

Too many conclusions for my mind to jump to…

I need that drum… I need my drum… I need any drum..

Ba dum ba dum dum…..

Any sound better than the rhythmic drip of would be tears.. Of a would be sentiment… Of a would be heart.. That I haven’t had in years..

Once broken I never bothered to repair it…

So I’ve been wondering…
Beatless for years…

And maybe it’s not her particular drum but the cadence that I need.. The familiarity that I need…

The evidence of a drum beat that once carried the beat for: mind body and soul to groove along… In a boy like harmony–eager to love and not afraid of the ramifications…

But it’s those damn ramifications… That stole the beat from my drum…

The only shadow of my drum left.. Is her…

The only trace of her… Is this torn condom wrapper…

A shallow boom only meant for a night…

Ba rum pa bum bummmm…..

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