…………………………………someone says this.
Love, an all-night spectacle. Whiskey humming
in your blood at dawn. The door is unlocked.
Morning highlights your backs, pressed together like lonely bookends.
You won’t sleep alone, and you can’t sleep together.
It’s a tired act. All elbows, cramped necks. Ignore
the ticking of the standalone clock, a constant reminder of
time. It’s the oldest misdirection, and you both know
you won’t fall in love. So when the alarm sings, pretend
you didn’t expect it. Like the impromptu disappearing act.
He’s a second rate magician. You are the white rabbit shoved
in the right breast pocket, stop anticipating the spotlight.
You savor unfiltered cigarettes and the poems
about swallowing glass, or how the windows are painted shut.
You understand the metaphors, but you pretend
not to. It’s showtime. The light hits you and divides
in every direction. The tank is nearly full, and you don’t stop it.
This is the finale. His split deck smile. Your wet,
deadpan body. You half expect him to cheer.