These sour rocks can’t come close to you anymore,
anymore than I can see you as human.
When the cry of what’s next came up to call
there was no use pretending your fate.

Columns fell long ago but found solace
in bank accounts,
while this studio apartment
grew too big
for the both of us.

Your six-foot frame fits in the pocket of a gentleman,
While my 200 pounds gets lost in a lady’s handbag.
The shouting, however, remains as loud
and long
as a train wreck,
the unwilling audience of neighbors drowning us out
with their own decompositions.

When the sun inevitably sets,
and you bed down before me,
I see the streetlights through closed eyes,
and hear your laughter,
desperate for it once more.


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