Phosphene shock of strawberry blonde in the flawless
dark, blue irises the sizeof 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 heartexcised 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 differentkind of Pentecost—deep cuts cutting me loose from language,
tongues of shadow subtle as the edges of your black
strapless dressthat barely grace the cover barely covering you.
Photo by Jesse Echevarria on Unsplash