My girlfriend is alright in telling me things,
I didn't know about myself,
in a dimly-lit motel bathroom
as rusted water leaks from an old metal facet
onto warped linoleum tiles.
We sit next to each other commiserating through pale dry morning hours as
pawnshop cars screech from midnight parking-lots,
we stare into each others faces ascending
into cool embraces upon
soiled mattress covers talking,
evolving,
transcending crooked anecdotes our predecessors had to face while an
out-of-tune mini-fridge hums along with a hidden radiator parallel
with on-going conversation we are not audio recluses,
romanticizing beside sunrise windows,
below flickering ceiling fixtures spreading
dingy shadows along crimson carpeting and
sordid manuscripts piled loosely atop sticky coffee-tables,
a sickle moon's luminescence encompasses an
outdoor establishment's perimeter
Her plastic purse jingles (when shaken) loose change and car keys.
My girlfriend is alright, we don't care about the weather or what time it is.
We cannot stand television with its endless charade
of futile fiction, its embarrassing attempts at
creating non-fictional pastimes
Another weekday evening transpires through silhouetted motel curtains into
the placid dusk of routine disposition
An abandoned warehouse blearily clings to a junkyard horizon in
sallow evening foreshadowing,
where a juvenile sun presses its grim tongue into crude awakening
sultry minutes of predawn fornication,
as night crawlers crept and wept in
desolate alleyways of old rustic deity.
Hungover faces cringe incessantly,
enduring a moments panic,
through abrupt realizations of
how lost and empty reality actually is
when you're sober
My girlfriend is alright, she doesn't have to know everything.
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