Crumbles of torn pages, a swath of black lace—
the appropriate targets of cheap fantasies
when the months go by without a bite ,fishing seems a futile effort
and it wrenches like an empty stomach
groaning and tightening with each reminder:
there is nothing there
this family dynamic we all found ourselves in
orphans of the muse, casting shadows on her halo
breaking through the fourth wall to keep ourselves in check
it was all we could do to practice those magic spells
not realizing what it would take to find one that worked
it's still fresh, that awakening at three in the morning
a blue light casting long shadows on the carpet
and there I am, fixated on those tiny roses printed on thermals
you, lingering in the doorway without a purpose
one haircut away from returning to the void
