PAJAMAS WITH FEET IN THEM

PAJAMAS WITH FEET IN THEM 

Falling in love with you

Has been like falling in the mud with white pants on.

You preach to me your Sunday morning sermon of dissent.

My heart collapses 

In the soiled, smoldering ashes of a ruined house.

I fell in love with you who did not know me

And I played my lonely come-on game

Only to awaken to a cold shower on a winter morning.

Losing you

Is like losing a goldfish down the drain.

Lost love empties into lost time.

Oil spills on the sea

Make everything bleak and distant.

I am crying on my own shoulder,

Leaviing when everyone else is staying,

Missing the last train,

Touching someeone's hand for the last time,

Traipsing over land mines of despair and fear,

Hopelessly lost in yesteryear,

Sleeping alone, in pajamas with feet in them.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2026

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

This poem was probably written in high school and belongs to my vast catalogue of lovelorn poems . I didn't find true love until I was 38 and met Kyle, my partner of nearly 25 years. So if I can find true love, there's hope for everybody.

CEILINGS

CEILINGS

I wove tapestries on  a thousand ceilings 

That night when you lay reckless in my fingertips and thoughts.

I used for inspiration the feelings 

That sprang along the passageways.

I played loud love songs into the afghan 

You once wrapped around your body, 

When this bed was our bed.

And these ceilings in these rooms were our ceilings.

I sang torch songs long after reasonable hours,

And when the sun went down, I wove to the light of candles.

 I dreamed tempestuous patterns, sighed exacting withered sighs.

I thought one too many carousels of celebration,

One too many thoughts of us in motion.

I wove psychedelic screams in all the corridors.

I wove heartbreak in a funk above the fireplace.

I wove you in every naked semblance of a man.

I wove until my heart collapsed from heat exhaustion in the desert.

i wove tapestries on a thousand ceilings.

I wove screeching loud love songs into the afghan.

And after I had woven the night white,

I ate breakfast on a dirty plate of Tuesdays.

Bruce Potts

Copyright 2026

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Note:  This is a poem of unrequited love from the archives, that I wrote either in high school or college