in bursts of neon red and orange,
when smiles smear surreptitiously
and faces gawk in contempt.
The room stretches longer,
and shadows blush a shade darker.
I gird myself in the sheets waiting,
for the cut that follows the fall.
The stench of tobacco and phlegm lingers droopy,
a pebble daggling on a thin thread by the uvula.
I imagine myself turning blue,
lungs wrung, like tablecloths over a parched sink,
knees wobbly, like drunkards disorientated.
But I know better.
the sun still sets
fist-planting on our faces,
in shades of scarlet and gold,
the subtle hints of goodbyes.
I was never a good man.
But I am merely one,
of flesh and cheap wine.
I choke back a word,
because my mouth is full of splinters,
and the air is flammable,
and my veins are gasoline.
I need a light,
I need a light.
“If it’s important, don’t let go”, she said.
“I won’t”, I promised.
Not because love triumphs,
but because years do.