Llv Poem by Thomas Case

We've been apart
now for awhile, and
the pain has began to
subside, but today, something
triggered it, fresh
and sharp.

I ran across some
pictures of your vagina that you
let me have.
It makes me sad to look at
them for hours on end.
I may be reading too
much into the three different
views, but in one of them,
your vagina seems to
be whispering.
'I miss you Thomas,
we had so much fun,
you and I.'
In another shot,
the light hits it
just right, and I swear
Jezebel (she loved it when I
called her that.)
seems to be pouting, like
she's sad too.
And the third picture,
that one is the hardest
to view of all.
It's in black and white,
so it has that film noir look
to it, like a sad French mime.
It's quite artistic, as far
as close-ups of
vajayjays go.
It has that fussy, pouty look
to it, with a twinge of anger,
as if to say,
'Why did you break up with
that great poet that enamored me.'
It seems to be beckoning,
'Please take him back, maybe if
you did, he wouldn't drink so
much and take your car and
disappear for days on end,
and then come back smelling of
urine and old painted up whores.'
It breaks my heart to look
at that one.
I'm almost crying as I write this,
because it looks so sad,
and lonely,
and a bit angry at you for
selling my collection of
baseball cards.
(it has quite the vocabulary.)