Our final restless words spoken prior to frail midnight, between silken pillowcases and cotton linens. Crimson curtains drawn to perfection, meticulous distances from either side. Grey painted urban walls remain dry and still. Two empty wine glasses reside on an adjacent dresser-drawer. Blood red was her breathing, stationary limbs pulsated beneath soft thwarted bedsheets, while vulnerable breezes pressed screen windows.
Her bedroom door left slightly ajar, a ceiling fan oscillated gradually on the surface above, while soft perpetual humming grazed city streets outside, transparent as my thoughts on nights like these. Hopeless and vacant, presently watching my future flicker to dull white canvas. Our life together fading abruptly beyond perennial tropics. She knew it, I failed to acknowledge it. What started off as a lucid bad- luck romance, diminished poorly to a three year misdeal. Some will say it was the abortion, while others say the cheating, I won't say it was the miscarriage, it was none of these at all.
Seasons watched us yield upon deserted concrete playing fields, where sordid winter winds scattered precious summer remains of previous vain attempts at:
Something beautiful.
Something we couldn't have
Something I couldn't have.
Something she couldn't have
Something no one can have.
.
Remembering our residential madness, my daily miscues, her resurrected drama. Friends and family meant nothing. What was work besides getting paid? An invalid reason to wake up every afternoon aside the vague ashes and stale embers of antique fires. On and off the wagon I rode out the tedious endless days in striking clamor, to possess an eternal gem beneath pale straying suns, is wicked like preying coyotes crying out to devilish moonbeams surrounding predatory equators.
I had the art museum blues on free Sundays in springtime. Loveless in the city of brotherly filth. Traffic lights signaled a daytime fantasy, that should of came shimmering thoughtlessly in silhouetted decades before. Watching through scratched touristic glass with retro binoculars:
Our love was a novelty.
Our love was selfish.
Our love wasn't selfless.
Our love was what we wanted to feel about ourselves, not each other.
In venomous outrage we cackle drunkenly, throwing vintage posters from 3rd story balconies, approaching evening sweating profusely, I'm tired of living this way, you're just tired of me:
Everything is okay now, I'll just have dreams every once in a while:
That I'm fifteen years younger and that
None of this ever happened.
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