Precious Jones

1 Week Post Break-Up: Seven days ago, I walked across a rainbow to find a pot of poison, pale like the dead hand that taps my shoulder to tell me I'm snoring because I put in more than my share of work because that's how I operate this one way train with a two way ticket to heaven and back to foolish reality of leeches who need to be held yet can't be faithful friends, lovers or champions of either, so

sometimes I
on my
until the

sun comes up, formulating new ways to defame her character. But now, I sit in the Curry Mahal, thinking chicken tikka goes well with heartache 11:45 PM this Friday night as one unfavorable ex treks to this club or that bar not knowing (or caring that) one day, death will become her.

2 Weeks Post Break-Up: I'm inspired to write a letter I'll never send where I say: Dear K,

I still have your "I Love Jamaica" calendar that reeks of lavender and the bullshit you fed me about our future June honeymoon in Ocho Rios eating ackee and mangoes, ripe and round like you

said I was the
only one for you
said I was the
only one for you
said I was the
only one for you
said I was your
one and only

and as we stood in the sun I didn't want to leave the local heaven of your arms where love should've been taken seriously when you said I was the only one for you

said I was the
only one for you
said I was the
only one for you
said I was your
one and only

but now

3 Weeks Post Break-Up: The present retains memories where she'd come to me belching blasphemous moments of "I said you said" when we could've been making love instead of accusations about where one or both of us were the night before.

Even then, I
foresaw her
the conclusion
of our union,
the familiar
feeling of alone
clamping down
on a knobby
forearm to
lead me back to
the beginning
of another week's

The day she left me, I stumbled upon an undisputable truth: Bon-Bons are most enjoyable semi-hard when ice cream has already begun to melt, seeping through chunks of chocolate to saturate a desiccated tongue.

I stand in the frozen food section at Pathmark eyeing the jello pudding pops hard. While contemplating the pros and cons of investing in an eight bar box, my conscience interrupts to say

fuck the fudge
pops in the
they ain't goin'
faster than

"Can't none of that stuff possibly be as sweet as you, sugar," says drunken Mr. Felix from across the hall, flashing a multicolor-toothed smile, pushing past with his shopping cart full of nothing/something has got to change, I manage a half-hearted laugh backing away toward the exit. The security guards eye me suspiciously/too lazy to investigate as I speed walk out the store clutching my black purse. Digging inside, my hand searches for peppermint, resurfaces with lotion, lip gloss, pen, library, credit and social security cards, a picture of us I'd obviously forgotten to dispose of. The lump in my throat grows like a malignant tumor preparing to burst. Why do I carry my life in my purse, I try to keep my composure jay-walking across Broadway/I can't go on this way, God help me, I

can't go on this way.

4 Weeks Post Break-Up: Contrary to popular belief, the Pinctada Margaritafera is not an alcoholic beverage, but a vulnerable creature of habit/hardly no one appreciates the grand events stirring beneath her stone wall of silence, hence their ability to coax her into baring her soul for the taking/hard exterior nothing more than a defense mechanism against those whose intentions are less than pure. And yet, she continues to give of herself because she is hopeful.

The black lipped
oyster and I
have a lot in

I examine the pearl bracelet K bought for our first anniversary when it hits me/we were in love once upon a time, my two paged E-mails, her three figure phone bills showing an overwhelming need to be close to one another. I remember the last E-card I sent her, grey kitty-cat napping in a basket. The message read:

Sent: Tuesday, January 14 2003 2:08 AM EST
Subject: thinking of you

hey u: what happened earlier on the
phone? you clicked over, next thing i
know i'm talking to tone

if we don't speak again tonight, have a
beautiful tomorrow--cant wait to
hear your voice later, so

'til then, queen,

ams aka ambi-bambi aka bee-bee aka precious aka pj aka

i luv u

The End

Copyright © 2004. Used by permission of author. All Rights Reserved.

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