She slips away having turned cold
No reason, it’s just her nature
Her first night will always linger
Tickertape dreams always endure
The heat of romance quelled her cold
Torched by the warmth of her beauty
Surrounded by youth’s couture
We stood between a past and future
Promises, fragile champagne bubbles
Bursting from a lost hearts longing
‘Neath fireworks of passions lie
Succumb to faded street light paths
Thus, do we dream upon waking
Of promises slowly grown cold
I ran the blade under my thumbnail,
scouring dirt with the tip,
and stared aimlessly at the street.
Switchblade thoughts clicking,
metronomic stilettos on wet paving,
drawing closer.
In this sleeping wakefulness,
this illusion of life,
she never arrives;
waiting, as you do, for endings,
or new beginnings,
becomes strictly habitual.
They say hell is for heroes,
abide there with fiery halos
and tickertape ash.
I ran the blade under my thumbnail,
pressing harder, drawing blood,
a singular jewel procreating,
welling then dripping, dripping.
I’m no hero,
just a deadening excuse
like the rest.
And yet it still feels like hell
to me.
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