"On stuffing the Queen of Diamonds"

                I returned to the Queen of Diamonds jaded parlor around half past noon; screen-window chandeliers, and ancient marble staircases; aligned sleepily through afternoon breezes and faded velvet drapery. An antique grand piano rested aside a vacant hollow fireplace, below adorned residential mantelpieces. Cushioned pew-like woodwork: I rested my ass upon it. Ashes carpeted a chiseled coffee-table; decorated surface intervals included: corner-edged condiment shakers, brass framed candelabra, a vintage Streisand record (to set the mood later-on), and a single crumpled paper-napkin. Upon unfolding the napkin, I deciphered the pencil scribbling, it read:
                              "Love is like an old beat up convertible; fire-engine red, with decade-old blood dried to the translucent windshield. Faith is similar to a dead junkyard mustang; sea foam green with pale grey interior lining.                  
                              I've held live mascara eye-lids closed within my bruised delicate fingertips; frail emotion did bleed like sap from an autumn tree in December. Oceans of water still breathe and breed throughout  moist damp Pacific greenery.
                             I've felt chamber doors slammed all in my direction, a dying thump echoed all throughout the narrow walls that construct her 3rd-story apartment building at 2 a.m.
                             I'm a man who knows what it is like to lose, for a very long time. I've lost the love I set out to gain so long ago. A circling winding journey that ends at the beginning; that begins at the thunderous climax.
                             I've thrown away myriad soul-mates; like the brief swipe of a stolen ATM card. Diseased midnight prostitutes know my pain. Their nocturnal sweat pervades amphetamine-empathy from the illustrious pours of their soiled brows. Crimson as scattered nightfall, I walk alone; these bankrupt streets. Neighborhood alley toxins are of no relief to me. My suffering is not unique; I die within mediocre graveyard boundary-lines. Cemeteries of cryptic melodic undertones, I shall pour another glass of cellar-sherry with the octogenarian undertaker (who goes by the name of Mel, a gentle soul with no immediate family)."
                         
                      Re-crumpling the paper napkin, I stood up and quickly stuffed it into the tight pocket of my pleated trousers. I stood there for a pensive moment lost in thought, then sighed grimly upon realizing: I buried the Queen of Diamonds a long time ago.