Melancholy Hyperbole

Poetry about longing.

Personal Ontology

The world can be correctly described using various concepts of “the existence of something.”— Eli Hirsch
 
If we have souls they are probably in our hands I said peering into my beer bottle. The floor leaned and you tilted your head that you heard me, drank the last sip of your beer, and sloppily spun me on my barstool. I slammed my shot of tequila forgetting the salt and lime. Burned to my toes as I wiped my mouth with the back of your hand. Twisting towards you, your thumb traced the semi-circle under one of my eyes. Do you think we have souls at all? I watched you take another dip, pinch of Copenhagen, then spit into my empty bottle. I reached out my arm. Palm up on the bar, your nail traveled along my love-line. Then grabbed my hand–held it for a minute. You squeezed my fingers tenderly at first then gripped harder till I looked over. Philosophy is a waste of time you said and let it go.
 
 
Rebecca ThillRebecca Thill is a full-time graduate student and a part-time baker. Her poetry has appeared in East Coast Ink Magazine and some non-fiction pieces appear on elephantjournal.com. She enjoys any activity that involves being outside, more specifically activities that involve the sun. Crime shows and documentaries will always disgust and intrigue her. And she would be perfectly content if she moved to a cabin in the mountains where she could spend her days hiking and writing. You can find her on Twitter at @bec_caw

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Categories: Poetry, Themed, Unfortunately I can't love you

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