.

.


 

I remember her breath, “california
wildfires”, smelling like some molotov breeze.
 
This was the breeze that
I exhaled.
 
The more I stared, the
more I saw what
you saw, and the
more she spoke, the
more I heard what you heard.
 
Passing glances and
blue-balled conversations.
 
Now, with aluminum cans
ringing in the distance,
with the gongs of bells at
1 pm,
 
(like a shared
hangover, groomsmen
and bridesmaids in some
emotional orgy)
 
I couldn’t tell
if they were
for a wedding song or
a funeral march.
 
(this was the kind of comment you’d
raise your caterpillar eyebrow at, smiling)
 
I watch your piece-of-trash Civic
fade away, thinking of some clever way
to put myself into verse,
to Immortalize,
but I cannot.
I hurt.

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