Eat Your Heart Out This is It Poem by Charles Bukowski
Eat Your Heart Out This is It
I've come by, she says, to tell you that this is it. I'm not kidding, it's over. this is it. I sit on the couch watching her arrange her long red hair before my bedroom mirror. she pulls her hair up and piles it on top of her head- she lets her eyes look at my eyes- then she drops her hair and lets it fall down in front of her face. we go to bed and I hold her speechlessly from the back my arm around her neck I touch her wrists and hands feel up to her elbows no further. she gets up. this is it, she says, this will do. well, I'm going. I get up and walk her to the door just as she leaves she says, I want you to buy me some high-heeled shoes with tall thin spikes, black high-heeled shoes. no, I want them red. I watch her walk down the cement walk under the trees she walks all right and as the pointsettas drip in the sun I close the door.