Sunday 11/19/2006 11:35:00 PM

He turned the windows off. In cold rampages. In burgundies that never matched. He counted that threads that were bare. In the seams of his epiphany. Like a child counts the number of ropes she's skipped. Idle warts on loose skin. Sick with all the remedies we apply.

I killed the loneliness tallying the reds. Carving the treasons to measure the least of the ingredients. I killed the hollow the way all crimes are executed. At the expense of someone else.

He fought the walls so discretely I almost thought I was imagining the war. He used those shadows through the glass. Monster in blue eyeliner assembling my proof.

Of the girl I almost became.

Little strangers. Their toes making polka dots in the darkness. Little moments arriving at last. So much bigger than I pictured them.

| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2021. All Rights Reserved.