Hello sadness. Hello inspiration.
My head is filled with shout-outs from an unfinished album. When you left me, I scoured the thesaurus seeking a suitable synonym for melancholy. Kissed substitute women until my tongue ached with want. Craved brown liquor and loose narratives of regret.
O my call-and-response. My hard luck bait-and-switch. When your harmonic progressions migrated north wearing stilettos and red dresses to Sunday service, your shuffle cajoled blessings from long-forgotten prayers. Choreographed hope from despair. Found you singing confessions in police stations and mumbling about metaphor.
On good days, you’re a solved riddle of personal adversity. On bad, you’re useless as a broken stereo.
I put out a bottle of bourbon to tempt you. Line desk drawers with final notice bills. You teach parables of betrayal in the tentative pauses between worried notes. Play bid whist with the neighbors, raise holy hell when they table talk and renege.
Some nights, you repeat chords while I pull lyrics dark as a starless night from the abandoned well of my throat. Like I have the sickness and you are the remedy.
Like I have the sickness and you are the remedy.
Adrian S. Potter writes poetry and prose in Minnesota. He’s the author of the poetry collection Everything Wrong Feels Right (Portage Press). Some publication credits include North American Review, Roads & Bridges, Jet Fuel Review, LILIPOH, and Kansas City Voices. Visit him online at https://adrianspotter.com