The lost poem

I was watching a movie on the television Saturday with The Husband. Saturday started out lazy, as our Saturdays almost always do, with me lounging in bed with a cup of coffee playing with my iPhone while he went to the market.

Eggs? Check.

Cheese? Check.

Doughnuts? Yes please.

We took our time eating breakfast (at 11am) while we watched a movie. Something with bad cops, drug busts gone side-ways, and a main character dying off. Cancer or something that made her bald.

Sidenote, thanks to Sinead O'Conner I think all bald women are hot.

One scene in particular stood out for me. The bald woman (from the movie, not Sinead O'Connor) was down on her knees in her children's bedroom crying because she was doing to die and leave them behind. Great big sobs, the open-mouthed kind that don't come with sound. The kind that you know come from nothing short of a soul ripped to shreds; the kind that are silent because your heart is too broken to actually make sound.

It stood out because I've felt that way, only without the cancer and the soon-to-be mother-less children. Words dropped into my mind, splashing onto my brain. I wrote a whole poem in my head and it was good. I'm sure it would have won a poem-prize.

Only, it was Saturday and I was powerfully comfortable with a cup of coffee in front of me, a belly-full of eggs and cheese, and a doughnut in each hand.

I'll write it down later, I vowed to myself.

Only I didn't. And now I can't remember it.