Phosphene shock of strawberry
blonde in the flawless
dark, blue irises the size
of LPs on the ceiling—I’m seeing
a pale T-zone, ghost lips of a lonely girl singing
Don’t they know
it’s the end of the world?
Call this a midnight cardiectomy: my heart
excised by contralto
and floating supra-sternum.
That voice sends me up for existential grabs,
Julie—sung to by you, I get feeling like
I’ve never known a night in my life
who I truly am. But it’s cool,
I’m cool with all that’s un-
requited, the torch song of self to melancholic
self. This darkness
is a blessing, these
minor keys in your mouth a different
kind of Pentecost—deep cuts cutting me loose
from language,
tongues of shadow subtle as
the edges of your black
strapless dress
that barely grace the cover
barely covering you.
Photo by Jesse Echevarria on Unsplash
