Dear Sara, the grenadine grenadiers are all gone now; recklessly ambling down silhouetted evening streets of nocturnal plumage. Dampened dusk filled alleyways exhale poignant vapors of stale bourbon daydreams and cheap cigarette-end stigmatization. Black and read obituary headlines pour tepid morning coffee down stained sunday shirt-sleeves of broken ritual.
In grim terrestrial foreshadowing, I warn thee of a dawn orange sky effluent; draining futile lethargy down upon our cement city sidewalk children.
I've known much too well
our whole life I've been
drowning to concrete bottoms of renovated swimming pools
skinning feeble knees on plaza fountain precipices
sharp city cistern edges scrape your scarred pale arms among six-feet deep grave acquaintances..
Truthfully and congenitally, you may as well be dead with your hay-stack needle hopeful, drawn-out cutlery, and faded green tourniquet.
We'll continue to bleed as enervate pigs wreathed in dry heat amid fertile seasons of cornbread incest.
A raw county gallantry lurches blindly behind an insidious visage of malcontent.
The gritty uptown social worker leads us up to your homey emergency hospital bedroom, where we once pulled beige pillowcase cornices down taut over an empty dusted sill window, while celluloid wallpaper shadows tightly gripped the dim porcelain floorboard, under cushioned doors out into surreal illumined hallways of bloodline medication.
Back home in rural America, your exiled mother nurtures our first-born daughter with my father's baby blues, while an overcast sky vaguely crests auburn hillsides of opaque Appalachian freeways and a couple hundred years ago maybe you passed me a carved-out coconut and I sipped the love milk nakedly from the center of your body.
Presently on the west-side; we nurse drunken hours with dollar-store bendy-straws, slowly dinned to dissipated lullabies beside the apartment radiator.
A residential alarm-clock rasps about us now, or just for you in menial sloth- as subdued domestic ambiance emanates throughout lemon damasked hallways into an pleasantly furnished nursery; where cherry-lacquered coffee tables remain immobile through sullen afternoons of illicit fornication.
Our neighborhood odysseys are defunct at best. Leave me at your stepparents kitchen-sink clutching a rusted pizza-cutter, dolefully staring at a framed portrait of you in high-school with strawberry blond highlighted hair, before becoming a self-obsessed junky, my pale fingertips bled inevitably onto hardened crusts of days spent with you and your track-records warped in torn draped chambers of disillusion. We slept together on winter's soiled mattress, seethed in bedbugs and arid semen stains and I dreamed about jail again last night.
Your once servile grandmother's ashes piled in a pawnshop vase on antique fireplace mantels of lost ancestry - A dresden clock winds unwieldy minutes in the melancholy foyer.
You shot my world into your arm Sara and
what's worse is I can't even stop you
from taking your life along
with my
heart.
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