and suitcase clothes
on the bottom of
the hotel bedroom floor.
You’d think ten-thousand moments could blurry one’s vision,
but it only makes my nights stronger
like a hellish fever
blown over New York City’s streets.
Closing a pair of blinds, I black out a silver dawn, wearing smoke as suited armor. I question this essence, chanting:
Oh where has my love gone, oh where has my love gone,
I suppose it rests fate within the lines on your hands.
My bedroom—a catacomb of distressed dreams
holds the key
to whatever they say I’m supposed to believe
But I haven’t found much luck in belief.
I grew up with a boy named Scream.
He tends to laugh at your lightest musings. How amusing.
And every time I see empathy, he floods emotion in front of me.
In front of me,
an ocean deepens
where my heart knows tragedy; I wish he’d latch onto some mercy.
Scared of depths; nearly half dead
he becomes aware that no ending seems clear
when I’m with you.
Saturdays go mad.
Sun-showers always lack
a different pungent touch:
finer than chalk;
wiser than tongues
pounding brackish concrete.
When I’m with you,
my feathers lose their cuffs
and my safeguard won’t shut up.
Somebody started the defibrillator rush.
A phoenix rises from my chest.
Royal blue at its best, your breath
takes me southward—I feel blessed—
refreshed—we remain intact.