I may have
Googled
your name.
A penchant for
beards and
sharp
though
hormone-addled
brains
tests
my playful
though-steadfast
resolve leaving me
weak,
proverbially.
But mostly,
I fight against
A need
to shove you, hard
against a wall,
quixotically.
There’s no way to come to terms with
loving a
dead
man.
He is dead today.
He was dead yesterday.
He will be dead tomorrow.
And, my love isn’t.
It sits there, scratching to get out
Unfulfilled
Confused
Not understanding
that it
will
never get
what it wants,
Not because he
couldn’t
have given
it.
But, because
he
can’t
anymore.
It always comes back
to the bottle. The life-blood
that feeds my broken and sweaty—
poetic self. Veins pulsing with last night’s
gin—and a bit of this morning’s bile.
It brings me to life when the night comes,
defeats the curse of stressful living—my entrance fee
into the cult of devastating personality.
The world spins when I am no longer moving,
and I smile more in a night than I do in a year’s
worth of cancerous days.
When the light crawls through
the cracks in the thick black curtains
it always brings with it a reminder
that last night’s illusion has once
again dissipated with the poison
sunlight.
Leaving only shaking hands
and a headache that aspirin
will never
cure.
Rusty Truck 