Leaving Like a Return

25 Jun


Leaving Like a Return


I used to only call you

when jerking off

in a sweat reminiscent of late November

didn’t hit the spot.

Don’t ask me where I’ve been

because I honestly don’t remember much

but I probably stopped at the liquor store

on the way

taking a penny for the road.

It’s nice to see you, though –

I’ve missed your “company”.


been writin’ too many poems about New York


so I knew that I had to escape off to New England to drink with some friends

who collect vintage posters of Eraserhead

for a week or so

but they smoke too much pot and sit around talking about Joss Whedon’s brilliance

for too long

so I had to return

like a gunshot in April.

I called you as soon as I got back,

I swear it, honey.

In hindsight

it might have been a mistake


you always hated my preoccupation with death

and Keats

and slow black-and-white Jarmush films

and that I once told your mother that she “made the best fucking meatloaf I’ve ever had” and that I once resurrected from your parents bathroom high

with my eyes pinned

during Easter dinner entr’acte and proceeded to drink two bottles of wine

(as though I was preparing for the overture)

but that was all so long ago.

And every time I’m reminded that I miss your taste

because I could never replicate it with the others

And you know that I once loved you

and you know that’s the truth

as much as I like Cointreau in my orange juice

and now you’re here again

in my bed and in my mind like some eponymous agony

and I’m grateful

don’t get me wrong

but you could at least do the fucking dishes.

I enjoy your smell on my bedsheets

again like a romantic tragedy reinvented

but you could at least make the bed

and not ensconce me

with our past that we both know

was like getting dirt in your mouth

on a long road trip west.

There’s too much love between us still

like a short Belle & Sebastian song playing through shitty speakers

and too much acrimony

for us not to know each other anymore.

So, it’s nice to see you

because you’ve always played the part well:

my lost vision on a cold day,  

my brutal beginning

as the reason to leave again…

it might have been swell,

but I never remember much –

which is really the only gift

you’ve ever given me,

but, it’s all I’ve ever really needed.  


Leave a Reply

Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

Copyright © 2010 - 2018 jacktumult.com All Rights Reserved.