Melancholy Hyperbole

Poetry about longing.

Tag Archive for ‘Robert Ford’


I kissed you too much that morning. Or it could’ve been too often. I don’t know which it was. I’m just sorry. I’ll blame the returning sun, the way it had silently purged the dark night of darkness, and the drunken streets of drunkenness, and shown me with its straight face that not even within an eternity could I ever kiss you enough, never quite capture something enduring of you […]

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Two years later

Because you did not encircle me completely, even though I would have let you, wanted you to, I still retain my own image of myself, albeit one ringed with a halo of ragged scars where we joined. And it is no surprise to hear you tell me, “I have a hole in my soul, where you have been.”   Robert Ford lives on the east coast of Scotland, and writes […]

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Meeting their next taciturn new lover

You notice the deep shovels of his hands are a combed-beach collection of scratches, the knuckles all wrecked, and still raw as lies. Black flecks like question marks on a map, sunken into the skin; you assume them to be thorns, but brambles rather than roses. From beneath the frayed cuffs of a cheap, over-worn shirt, the unruly wire of bronze hair emerging, and the first inch of a louder […]

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